<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<div class="main">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" title="Cover" width-obs="528" height-obs="744" /></div>
<div class="newchap">
<h2 style="margin-top: 5em; margin-bottom: 5em"><i>WILD NATURE WON BY KINDNESS.</i></h2></div>
<div class="newchap">
<div class='center'>
<table style="margin-top: 5em; margin-bottom: 5em" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Other books" border="1">
<tr><td>
<br/><br/>
<i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</i>
<br/>
<hr class="minor" />
<p class="pub">
<b>More about Wild Nature.</b> With Portrait<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em">of the Author and many other full-page Illustrations.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em">Crown 8vo, imitation leather gilt, gilt edges, in box, 5s.</span></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<p class="pub">
<b>Inmates of my House and Garden.</b><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em">With 32 Illustrations by Theo Carreras. Uniform with</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em">above, 5s.</span></p>
<span style="font-size: small">ALSO</span>
<p class="pub">
<b>Glimpses into Plant Life.</b> Fully Illustrated.<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em">Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.</span></p>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class='center' style="margin-top: 3em">
<table width="450" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Title page" border="1">
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<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 20px; word-spacing: 0.25em; letter-spacing: 0.15em; font-size: 215%">WILD NATURE</p>
<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 50px; word-spacing: 0.5em; letter-spacing: 0.25em; font-size: 155%">WON BY KINDNESS</p>
<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 50%">BY</p>
<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 120%">MRS. BRIGHTWEN</p>
<p class="titleblock" style="font-size: 72%"><i>Vice-President of the Selborne Society</i></p>
<p class="titleblock" style="letter-spacing: 0.05em; font-size: 45%">AUTHOR OF "INMATES OF MY HOUSE AND GARDEN," ETC.</p>
<p class="titleblock" style="letter-spacing: 0.05em; margin-bottom: 20px; margin-top: 40px; font-size: 80%"><i>ILLUSTRATED</i></p>
<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 37px; margin-top: 10px; font-size: 80%">EIGHTH EDITION</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ornate-london.png" alt="London" title="London" width-obs="93" height-obs="25" /></div>
<p class="titleblock" style="word-spacing: 0.5em; letter-spacing: 0.25em; font-size: 110%">T. FISHER UNWIN</p>
<p class="titleblock" style="letter-spacing: 0.05em; font-size: 75%">PATERNOSTER SQUARE</p>
<p class="titleblock" style="margin-bottom: 40px; letter-spacing: 0.05em; font-size: 75%">1898</p>
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<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class='center'>
<p class='center' style="margin-bottom: 25px; margin-top: 25px"><i>All rights reserved.</i></p>
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<div class="newchap">
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ornate-to.png" alt="To" title="To" width-obs="40" height-obs="33" /></div>
<p><span class="smcap" style="font-size: 120%">Sir</span> JAMES PAGET, <span class="smcap">Bart., F.R.S., D.C.L., Etc., Etc.</span></p>
<p><span class="smcap" style="margin-left: 2em; line-height: 1.0">My dear Sir James</span>,—<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 4em; line-height: 1.0">The little papers which are here reprinted would scarcely</span>
have been written but for the encouragement of your sympathy and the
stimulus of what you have contributed to the loving study of nature.
Shall you, then, think me presumptuous if I venture to dedicate to the
friend what I could never dream of presenting to the professor, and if
I ask you to pardon the poorness of the gift in consideration of the
sincerity with which it is given.</p>
<p style="line-height: 1.0;" class="right">
<span style="margin-right: 9em">
Pray believe me to be</span><br/>
<span style="margin-right: 6em">Yours very sincerely,</span><br/>
<span style="margin-right: 3em"> ELIZA BRIGHTWEN</span><br/></p>
<p style="line-height: 1.0">
<span class="smcap">The Grove, Great Stanmore.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 3.5em"><i>June, <ins class="transcriber"
title="Transcriber's note: original reads 1800. 1898 seems likely date, same as publication year.">1898</ins></i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></SPAN></span></p>
<p class="newchap" style="margin-bottom: 3em"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-001" id="illus-001"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p5.png" alt="FLYING WILD DUCK" title="FLYING WILD DUCK" width-obs="311" height-obs="211" /></div>
<h2><SPAN name="Contents" id="Contents"></SPAN>TABLE OF CONTENTS.</h2>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/line.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="74" height-obs="12" /></div>
<div class="smcap">
<table border="0" width="75%" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents">
<col style="width:85%;" />
<col style="width:15%;" />
<tr><td align="left">INTRODUCTION.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#INTRODUCTION.">11</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> 1. REARING BIRDS FROM THE NEST.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#REARING_BIRDS_FROM_THE_NEST.">18</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> 2. DICK THE STARLING.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#DICK_THE_STARLING.">21</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> 3. RICHARD THE SECOND.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#RICHARD_THE_SECOND.">25</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> 4. VERDANT.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#VERDANT.">44</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> 5. THE WILD DUCKS.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#THE_WILD_DUCKS.">51</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> 6. THE JAY.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#THE_JAY.">59</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> 7. A YOUNG CUCKOO.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#A_YOUNG_CUCKOO.">67</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> 8. THE TAMING OF OUR PETS.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#THE_TAMING_OF_OUR_PETS.">70</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr style="page-break-after: always"><td align="left"> 9. BIRDIE.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#BIRDIE.">80</SPAN>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></SPAN></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">10. ZÖE, THE NUTHATCH.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#ZOE_THE_NUTHATCH.">87</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">11. TITMICE.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#TITMICE.">99</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">12. BLANCHE, THE PIGEON.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#BLANCHE_THE_PIGEON.">108</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">13. GERBILLES.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#GERBILLES.">112</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">14. WATER SHREWS.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#WATER_SHREWS.">121</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">15. SQUIRRELS.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#SQUIRRELS.">126</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">16. A MOLE.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#A_MOLE.">131</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">17. HARVEST MICE.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#HARVEST_MICE.">136</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">18. THE CALIFORNIAN MOUSE.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#THE_CALIFORNIAN_MOUSE.">140</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">19. SANCHO THE TOAD.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#SANCHO_THE_TOAD.">143</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">20. ROMAN SNAILS.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#ROMAN_SNAILS.">146</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">21. AN EARWIG MOTHER.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#AN_EARWIG_MOTHER.">152</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">22. THE SACRED BEETLE.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#THE_SACRED_BEETLE.">157</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">23. SPIDERS.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#SPIDERS.">163</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">24. TAME BUTTERFLIES.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#TAME_BUTTERFLIES.">173</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">25. ANT-LIONS.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#ANT-LIONS.">178</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">26. ROBINS I HAVE KNOWN.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#ROBINS_I_HAVE_KNOWN.">183</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">27. ROBERT THE SECOND.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#ROBERT_THE_SECOND.">188</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">28. FEEDING BIRDS IN SUMMER</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#FEEDING_BIRDS_IN_SUMMER">195</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">29. RAB, MINOR.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#RAB_MINOR.">202</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">30. A VISIT TO JAMRACH.</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#A_VISIT_TO_JAMRACH.">207</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">31. HOW TO OBSERVE NATURE</td><td align="right"><SPAN href="#HOW_TO_OBSERVE_NATURE">214</SPAN></td></tr>
</table></div>
<p style="page-break-before: always; margin-bottom: 3em"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-002" id="illus-002"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p7.png" alt="SACRED BEETLE" title="SACRED BEETLE" width-obs="554" height-obs="306" /></div>
<h2><SPAN name="Illustrations" id="Illustrations"></SPAN>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/line.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="74" height-obs="12" /></div>
<div class="smcap">
<table border="0" width="75%" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations">
<col style="width:80%;" />
<col style="width:20%;" />
<tr><td align="left">FLYING WILD DUCK</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-001">5</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">SACRED BEETLE</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-002">7</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">SWALLOW</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-003">11</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">REARING BIRDS FROM THE NEST</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-004">18</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">STARLINGS</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-007">21</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">FLYING STARLINGS</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-008">25</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">STARLING IN SEARCH OF FOOD</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-009">43</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">WILD DUCK</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-012">51</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TINY, SIR FRANCIS DRAKE AND LUTHER</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-013">58</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">JAY</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-014">59</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ANOTHER JAY</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-015">61</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A YOUNG CUCKOO.</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-017">66</SPAN><span class="pagenum" style="text-indent: 0em;"><SPAN name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></SPAN></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">BUTTERFLY AND CATERPILLAR</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-018">67</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">YOUNG CUCKOO ATTACKED BY BIRDS</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-019">69</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ARABESQUE</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-021">79</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ZÖE, THE NUTHATCH</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-024">87</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">NUTHATCH IN A COCOANUT</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-025">98</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TITMICE IN PURSUIT OF BEES</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-026">99</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TITMICE</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-027">101</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">BLANCHE THE PIGEON</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-029">108</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">GERBILLES</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-030">112</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">WATER SHREW</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-033">125</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">SQUIRREL</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-034">126</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">MOLE</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-036">131</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">MICE</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-038">140</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ROMAN SNAILS</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-042">146</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">EARWIG</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-045">156</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">EGYPTIAN BEETLES</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-046">157</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">FLYING BEETLE</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-047">162</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TRAP-DOOR SPIDERS</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-048">163</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">BUTTERFLY</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-050">173</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ANT-LION</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-051">178</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE ROBIN</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-052">183</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">YOUNG BIRDS</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-056">195</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">CHILD AND PET BIRD</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-057">201</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">RAB MINOR</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-058">202</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">RAB MINOR RUNNING</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-059">206</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">NESTLINGS</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-060">207</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">NEST OF WASPS</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-062">214</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">SNAKE IN A CIRCLE</td><td align="right" valign="top"><SPAN href="#illus-063">230</SPAN></td></tr>
</table></div>
<p class="newchap" style="margin-bottom: 3em"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></SPAN></span></p>
<h4>PREFACE TO THE FIFTH<br/>EDITION.</h4>
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<p class='ornate'>
WO short chapters, one describing the
life of an Ant-lion, and the other
the habits of a tame Toad, were added
to the second edition, which was in other
respects a reproduction of the first.</p>
</div>
<p>The present edition has been improved by the
adoption of a number of illustrations which were
designed for the German translation of this book.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></SPAN></span></p>
<p class="newchap" style="margin-bottom: 3em"><br/><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-003" id="illus-003"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p11.png" alt="SWALLOW" title="SWALLOW" width-obs="317" height-obs="165" /></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="INTRODUCTION." id="INTRODUCTION."></SPAN>
<h2>INTRODUCTION.</h2></div>
<div class="wrap_area">
<ANTIMG src="images/illus-i-intro.png" alt="I" title="I" width-obs="63" height-obs="100">
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<p class='ornate'>
HAVE often wished I could convey to
others a little of the happiness I have
enjoyed all through my life in the
study of Natural History. During
twenty years of variable health, the companionship
of the animal world has been my constant
solace and delight. To keep my own
memory fresh, in the first instance, and afterwards
with a distinct intention of repeating my single
experiences to others, I have kept notes of whatever
has seemed to me worthy of record in the life
of my pets. Some of these papers have already
appeared in <i>The Animal World</i>; the majority are
now printed for the first time.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>In the following chapters I shall try to have
quiet talks with my readers and tell them in a
simple way about the many pleasant friendships
I have had with animals, birds, and insects. I use
the word friendships advisedly, because truly to
know and enjoy the society of a pet creature you
must make it feel that you are, or wish to be, its
friend, one to whom it can always look for food,
shelter, and solace; it must be at ease and at home
with you before its instincts and curious ways will
be shown. Sometimes when friends have wished
me to see their so-called "pet," some scared animal
or poor fluttering bird has been brought, for whom
my deepest sympathy has been excited; and yet
there may have been perhaps the kindest desire to
make the creature happy, food provided in abundance,
and a pleasant home; but these alone will not
avail. For lack of the quiet gentle treatment which
is so requisite, the poor little captive will possibly
be miserable, pining for liberty, hating its prison,
dreading the visits of its jailor, and so harassed in
its terror that in some cases the poor little heart
is broken, and in a few hours death is the result.
In the following simple sketches of animal, bird,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></SPAN></span>
and insect life, I have tried to show how confidence
must be gained, and the little wild heart won by
quiet and unvarying kindness, and also by the
endeavour to imitate as much as possible the
natural surroundings of its own life before its
capture. I must confess it requires a large fund
of patience to tame any wild creature, and it is
rarely possible to succeed unless one's efforts begin
in its very early days, before it has known the
sweets of liberty.</p>
<p>In many cases I have kept a wild animal or bird
for a few days to learn something of its ways,
possibly to make a drawing of its attitudes or
plumage, and then let it go, else nearly all my
pets, except imported creatures, have been reared
from infancy, an invalid's life and wakefulness
making early-morning feeding of young fledglings
less difficult than it would have been in many
cases, and often have painful hours been made
bearable and pleasant by the interest arising from
careful observation of the habits and ways of some
new pet animal or bird.</p>
<p>I have always strongly maintained that the love
of animated nature should be fostered far more<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></SPAN></span>
than it usually is, and especially in the minds of
the young; and that, in fact, we lose an immense
amount of enjoyment by passing through life as so
many do without a spark of interest in the marvellous
world of nature, that book whose pages are
ever lying open before us.</p>
<p>The beauties of the country might as well have
been left uncreated for all the interest that thousands
take in them. Not only town dwellers, who
might be excused for their ignorance, but those
who live in the midst of fields and woods, often
know so little about the curious creatures in fur
and feathers that exist around them that they are
surprised when told the simplest facts about these,
their near neighbours.</p>
<p>One reason may be, that it is now so much the
fashion to spend the year in various places, and
those always moving about have neither the time
nor opportunity to cultivate the little undergrowths
of quiet pleasures which spring out of a settled
home in the country, with its well-tended garden
and farmyard, greenhouses, stable, and fields—the
horses and cattle, petted and kindly cared for from
their birth, dogs and poultry, and all kinds of
special favourites.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>There is a healthy, happy tone about such a life,
and where it exists and is rightly maintained, good
influence is, or ought to be, felt in and around the
home. Almost all children have a natural love of
living creatures, and if they are told interesting
facts about them they soon become ardent naturalists.
I well remember that in my childhood I
had a great dread of toads and frogs, and a relative,
to whom I owe much for having directed my mind
into the love of animated nature, took up a frog in
her hand and made me look at the beautiful gold
circle round its eyes, its curious webbed feet, its
leaping power arising from the long hind legs; she
told me also of its wonderful tongue, so long and
flexible that it folded back in its mouth, and that
the frog would sit at the edge of an ant-hill and
throwing out the tongue with its sticky point,
would pick off the ants one by one as they came
out. When I learnt all this, I began to watch
such a curious reptile; my fears vanished, and like
Kingsley's little daughter, who had been wisely led
to care for all living things and came running to
show her father a "dear delightful worm" she had
found! so I, too, have been led all through my<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></SPAN></span>
life to regard every created thing, great or small,
attractive or otherwise, as an object well worth the
most reverent study.</p>
<p>Perhaps I ought to explain that I have described
methods of taming, feeding, and housing one's pets
with extreme minuteness in order to help those of
my readers who may be very fond of live creatures,
and yet from lack of opportunity may have gained
no knowledge of their mode of life, and what is
required to keep them happily in health and vigour.
I have had to learn by experience that attention to
very small details is the road to success in keeping
pets as well as in other things, and the desire to
pass on that experience must be my excuse to
more scientific readers for seeming triviality.</p>
<p>Many admirable books have been written by
those well qualified to impart their knowledge in
every branch of Natural History, and the more such
books are read the better, but the following pages
simply contain the life histories of my pets and what
I personally have observed about them. I shall be
glad indeed if they supply any useful information,
or lead others to the more careful study of the common
every-day things around them with a view to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></SPAN></span>
more kindness being shown to all living creatures,
and tender consideration for them. I trust I may
feel that this little book will then have attained its
purpose. May it especially tend to lead the young
to see how this beautiful world is full of wonders of
every kind, full of evidences of the Great Creator's
wisdom and skill in adapting each created thing to
its special purpose, and from the whole realm of
nature may they be taught lessons in parables, and
their hearts be led upward to God Himself, who
made all things to reflect His own perfection and
glory.</p>
<table border="0" width="75%" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"Gem, flower, and fish, the bird, the brute,</span><br/>
<span class="i2">Of every kind occult or known</span><br/>
<span class="i0">(Each exquisitely form'd to suit</span><br/>
<span class="i2">Its humble lot, and that alone),</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Through ocean, earth, and air fulfil</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Unconsciously their Maker's will."</span></div>
</div>
<p class="right">ELIZA BRIGHTWEN.</p>
</td></tr></table>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-004" id="illus-004"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p17.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="260" height-obs="74" /></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-005" id="illus-005"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p18.png" alt="REARING BIRDS FROM THE NEST" title="REARING BIRDS FROM THE NEST" width-obs="386" height-obs="231" /></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="REARING_BIRDS_FROM_THE_NEST." id="REARING_BIRDS_FROM_THE_NEST."></SPAN>
<h2>REARING BIRDS FROM THE<br/>NEST.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
HE most delightful of all pets are the
birds one has taken the pains to rear
from the nest; they never miss the
freedom of outdoor life, they hardly know
what fear is, they become devotedly attached
to the one who feeds and educates them,
and all their winsome ways seem developed by the
love and care which is given to them.</p>
</div>
<p>I strongly deprecate a whole nest being taken;
one would not willingly give the happy little parent<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></SPAN></span>
birds the distress of finding an empty home. After
all their trouble in building, laying, sitting, and
hatching, surely they deserve the reward of bringing
up their little babes.</p>
<p>Too often when boys thus take a nest they simply
let the young birds starve to death from ignorance
as to their proper food and not rising early enough
to feed them.</p>
<p>It is a different matter if, out of a family of six,
one takes two to bring up by hand—the labour of
the old birds is lightened, and four fledglings will
sufficiently reward their toil.</p>
<p>The birds should be taken before they are really
feathered, just when the young quills begin to show,
as at that stage they will not notice the change in
their diet and manner of feeding. They need to
be carefully protected from cold, kept at first in a
covered basket in flannel, and if the weather is cold
they should be near a fire, as they miss the warmth
of the mother bird, especially at night.</p>
<p>I confess it involves a good deal of trouble to
undertake the care of these helpless little creatures.
They should be fed every half-hour, from four in
the morning until late in the evening, and that for<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></SPAN></span>
many weeks until they are able to feed themselves.</p>
<p>The kind of food varies according to the bird we
desire to bring up, and it requires care to make
sure that it is not too dry or too moist, and that it
has not become sour, or it will soon prove fatal,
for young birds have not the sense of older ones—they
take blindly whatever is given them.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-006" id="illus-006"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p20.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="308" height-obs="182" /></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-007" id="illus-007"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p21.png" alt="STARLINGS" title="STARLINGS" width-obs="335" height-obs="210" /><br/> <span class="caption">STARLINGS.</span></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="DICK_THE_STARLING." id="DICK_THE_STARLING."></SPAN>
<h2>DICK THE STARLING.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
EW people would think a cat could
possibly be a tender nurse to young
birds! but such was really the case
with a very interesting bird I possessed
some years ago.</p>
</div>
<p>A young starling was brought up from the nest
by the kind care of our cook and the cat! Both
were equally sympathetic, and pitied the little
unfledged creature, who was by some accident left
motherless in his early youth. Cook used to get
up at some unheard-of hour in the morning to feed<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></SPAN></span>
her clamorous pet, and then would bring him down
with her at breakfast-time and consign him to
pussy's care; she, receiving him with a gentle purr
of delight, would let him nestle into her soft fur for
warmth.</p>
<p>As Dick became feathered, he was allowed
the run of the house and garden, and used
to spend an hour or so on the lawn, digging his
beak into the turf, seeking for worms and grubs,
and when tired he would fly in at the open window
and career about until he could perch on my
shoulder, or go in search of his two foster-mothers
in the kitchen.</p>
<p>His education was carried on with such success
that he could soon speak a few words very clearly.
Strangers used to be rather startled by a weird-looking
bird flying in from the garden, and saying,
"Beauty dear, puss, puss, miaow!" But it was
still more strange to see Dick sitting on the cat's
back and addressing his endearments to her in the
above words. Pussy would allow him to investigate
her fur with exemplary patience, only objecting to
his inquisitive beak being applied to her eyelids to
prize them open when she was enjoying her afternoon<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></SPAN></span>
nap. Dick's love of water led him to bathe
in most inconvenient places. One morning, when
I returned to the dining-room after a few minutes'
absence, I found him taking headers into a glass
filter and scattering the contents on the sideboard.
After dinner, too, he would dive into the finger-glasses
with the same intention, and when hindered
in that design would visit the dessert dishes in
succession, stopping with an emphatic "Beauty
dear!" at the sight of some coveted dainty, to
which he would forthwith help himself liberally.</p>
<p>In summer Dick had to resist considerable
temptation from wild birds of his own kind, who
evidently made matrimonial overtures to him, but
though he "camped out" for a few nights now and
then, he never seemed to find a mate to his mind,
and elected to remain a bachelor and enjoy our
society instead of that of his own kith and kin.</p>
<p>Dick was certainly a pattern of industrious
activity, never still for two minutes. He seemed
haunted by the idea that caterpillars and grubs
existed all over the house, and his search for them
was carried on under all possible circumstances—every
plait of one's dress, every button-hole, would<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></SPAN></span>
be inquired into by his prying little beak in case
some choice morsel might chance to be lurking
there. Dick lived for a few happy years, and then
his bathing propensities most unhappily led to his
untimely death. One severely cold day in winter
he was missed and searched for everywhere, and
after some hours his poor little body was found
stiff and cold in a water-tank in the stable-yard,
where the ice had been broken. He had as usual
plunged in for a bath, and we can only suppose
the intense cold had caused an attack of cramp,
so that he could not get out again, and thus was
drowned. Many tears were shed for the loss of
the cheery little bird, who seemed like a bright
ubiquitous sunbeam about the house, and our only
consolation was the thought that, as far as we knew,
he had never had a sorrow in his life, and we can
only hope that if there are "happy hunting-grounds"
for birds our Dick may be there, bright
and happy still.</p>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-008" id="illus-008"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p29.png" alt="FLYING STARLINGS" title="FLYING STARLINGS" width-obs="630" /><br/> <span class="caption">FLYING STARLINGS.</span></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="RICHARD_THE_SECOND." id="RICHARD_THE_SECOND."></SPAN>
<h2>RICHARD THE SECOND.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
N a wet stormy day in May a young
unfledged bird was blown out of its
nest and was picked up in a paved
yard where, somehow, it had fallen
unhurt.</p>
</div>
<p>There he was found by my kind-hearted butler,
who appeared with the little shivering thing in his
hand to see if I would adopt it. The butler pleaded
for it, and it squawked its own petition piteously
enough, but I was far from strong, and I knew at
what very early hours these young feathered people
required to be fed. I therefore felt I ought hardly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></SPAN></span>
to give up the time which sometimes brought me
the precious boon of sleep after a wakeful night.
Very reluctantly I refused the gift, and felt wretchedly
hard-hearted in doing so. I will confide to
my readers that in my secret heart I thought the
poor orphan was a blackbird or thrush, and they
are birds I feel ought never to be caged; they pine
and look so sadly longing for liberty; even their
song has a minor key of plaintiveness when it
comes through prison bars, and this feeling helped
my decision.</p>
<p>A few days after I heard that the birdie was
adopted in the pantry, and was being fed "in the
intervals of business." When a few days later I
was definitely informed that the birdie waif was a
starling, then I confess I did begin to long for
another little friend such as my former "Dick" had
been, and it ended in my receiving Richard the
Second, as we called him for distinction, into my
own care and keeping, and month after month I
was his much-enduring mother. Most fledglings
are much the same at first; whenever I came in
sight the gaping beak was ever ready for food,
and the capacity for receiving it was wonderful.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></SPAN></span>
Richard grew very fast; little quills appeared and
opened out into feathers; his walking powers
increased till he could make a tottering run upon
the carpet; and then he began to object to his
basket and would have a perch like a grown-up
bird, practised going to sleep on one leg, which for
a long time was a downright failure and ended in
constant tumbles.</p>
<p>He was always out of his cage whilst I was
dressing, and was full of fun and play, scheming to
get his bath before I did, and running off with anything
he could carry. When he was about two
months old I had to go to Buxton for a month's visit
and decided that I could not leave Richard behind,
as he needed constant feeding with little pieces of
raw meat and was just old enough to miss my
training and care. He was therefore to make his first
start as a traveller, in a small cage, papered round
the sides, the top being left open for light and air.
He was wonderfully brave and good, very observant
of everything, and if scared a word from me would
reassure him, until at last even an express train
dashing past did not make him start. It was very
amusing to see the attention bestowed upon him at<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></SPAN></span>
the various stations where we had to get out. A
little crowd would gather round and stare at such
a self-possessed small bird. I was asked "if it was
a very rare bird?" It seemed almost absurd to
have to reply, "No, only a common starling;" but
people are so accustomed to see a caged pet flutter
in terror at its unusual surroundings, that my kingly
Richard rather puzzled his admirers.</p>
<p>When we began life in our apartments, one important
consideration in the day's proceedings was
the starling's food. There was no home larder to
fall back upon, so a daily portion of tender rump-steak
had to be obtained, to the great amusement
of the butcher with whom we dealt for our own
joints.</p>
<p>About this time the plain grey plumage began
to be varied by two patches of brilliant little purple
feathers, tipped with greyish-white, which appeared
on each side of his breast. Some began to peep
out of his back and head. He moulted his tail,
and had rich, dark feathers all over, in time, till he
arrived at being what he was often called, "a perfect
beauty"—glossy and brilliant, bronze gold and
purple, with reflets of rich green, and little specks<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></SPAN></span>
of greyish-white all over his breast; this richness
of colour, combined with his beautiful sleek shape,
made Richard a very attractive bird.</p>
<p>When we returned from Buxton, I was so confident
of the bird's tameness I used to carry him in
my hand out to the tulip tree, and there I often
sat and read, while Richard would pry into the
moss and the bark of the tree, searching for insects,
and though he could fly well by this time, he did
not try to do so, but seemed content to keep near
me.</p>
<p>One morning I heard his first articulate word,
"Beauty," spoken so clearly it quite startled me.
I had been diligently teaching him, by constant
repetition, for many weeks, and by degrees he
gained the power of speaking one word after
another, till at last he was able to say, "Little
beauty," "'Ow de doo?" "Pretty, pretty," "Beauty,
dear," "Puss, puss," "Miaow," and imitated kissing
exactly. All this was intermingled with his
native whistle and sundry inarticulate sounds, intended,
I suppose, to result in words and sentences
some day. Whilst talking and singing, his
head was held very upright, and his wings flapped<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></SPAN></span>
incessantly against his sides, after the manner of
the wild birds.</p>
<p>Nothing stirred my indignation more keenly
than the question so often asked, "Have you had
your starling's tongue slit to make him talk so
well?" I beg emphatically to entreat all my
readers to do their utmost to put an end to
this cruel and perfectly useless custom. My
bird's talking powers were remarkable, but they
were the result of his intelligence being drawn
out and cultivated by constant, loving care, attention
to his little wants, and being talked to and
played with, and made into a little feathered friend
of the family.</p>
<p>Now must be told an episode which cost me no
little heartache. Richard was out in my room one
morning as usual, when the room door happening
to be open, away he flew into the next room, and
out at an open window into the garden. I saw him
alight on a tree, but by the time I could reach the
garden he had gone. I saw a group of starlings in
a beech tree near by, and another set were chattering
on the house roof, but there was no telling if
my Richard was one of them. I called till I was<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></SPAN></span>
tired, and continued to do so at intervals all day,
but no wanderer appeared. His cage had been put
on the lawn, but to no purpose. I feared I should
never see my pet again, because I supposed he
might be lured by the wild birds till he got out of
hearing of any familiar voice. I confess it was hard
to think of my bright young birdie starving under
some hedge, for I felt sure he was too much of a
gentleman from his artificial bringing-up to be able
to earn his own living. All I could do was to
resolve to be up very early next day, and call again
and again, on the chance of his being within hearing.
Before six o'clock next morning I was seeking
the truant. Plenty of wild birds were about, the
bright sun glancing on their sleek coats—all looking
so like my pet it was impossible to distinguish
him. I little knew that he was then starving and
miserable under a bush in the upper part of the
garden. I continued calling and seeking him until
breakfast-time, and fast losing all hope of ever
seeing him again. About eleven o'clock I was returning
from the kitchen garden, with my hands full
of fruit and flowers, when, to my intense delight,
poor little Richard came slowly out from under a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></SPAN></span>
laurel, and stood in the path before me, as veritable
a type of a birdish prodigal son as could well be
imagined.</p>
<p>His feathers were ruffled, his wings drooping, his
whole aspect irresistibly reminded one of the Jackdaw
of Rheims; and the way he sidled up to me,
with half-closed eyes and drooping head, was one
of the most pathetic things I ever experienced. He
so plainly said, "I'm very sorry—hope you'll forgive
me; won't do it again"; and certainly his
mute appeal was not in vain, for down went my
fruit and flowers, and with loving words I took up
my lost darling, and cooed over him all sorts of
affectionate rubbish until we reached home and he
was restored to his cage. There his one desire was
water. Poor fellow! he was nearly famished. I
think another hour would have seen his end.
There is no water in the garden, except in the
stone vase in front of the dining-room window, and
he would not have known how to find that, so he
must have been twenty-eight hours without drinking
anything beyond a possible drop of dew now
and then. I had to feed him with great care—a
little food, and very often, until he recovered a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></SPAN></span>
measure of strength. He was very drooping all
day, and I quite feared he might not live after all,
he was so nearly starved to death. After some
days, however, "Richard was himself again," and as
bright and amusing as ever. I have not related the
amusing characteristics of his "daily tub." His love
of water was a perfect passion, and water he would
have. At first he was treated to a large glass dish
on the matting in the dining-room, but he sent up
such a perfect fountain of spray over curtains,
couch, and chairs, that the housemaid voted "that
bird" a nuisance, and a better plan was devised.
In the conservatory is a pool of water, with rock-work
and ferns at the back, and there is a central
tube where a fountain can be turned on. I made
a small island of green moss a little above the
water, and, placing Richard upon it, I turned the
fountain on to play a delicate shower of spray over
him. He was perfectly enchanted, and fluttered,
turned about, and frisked, like a bird possessed. As
he became accustomed to it, I began to throw
handfuls of water over him, and that he did enjoy.
He would cower down, and lie with his wings
expanded and beak open, receiving charge after<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></SPAN></span>
charge of water till quite out of breath; then he
would run a few paces away on his island till he
recovered himself, and then would go back and
place himself ready for a renewed douche. I never
saw such a plucky bird. If I had been trying to
drown him I could not have done more, for sometimes
he was knocked backwards into the pool;
but no matter, he was up again, and all ready in a
minute. He generally tired me out, and when I
turned off the fountain, he would either fly or run
after me into the drawing-room and go into his
cage, which always stood there; and there followed
a very careful toilette—a general oiling and
pluming and fluttering, until his bonnie little
feathers were all in good order; and then would
follow endless chatter, and he would inform the
world that he was a "little beauty," "pretty little
dear," &c.</p>
<p>Starlings seem to have an abundant supply of
natural oil in the gland where it is stored, for his
feathers were never really much wetted by his tremendous
baths, and he was a slippery fellow to
hold, his plumage was so glossy and sleek.</p>
<p>A word must be said about his temper; it was<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></SPAN></span>
decidedly not meek by any means, and his will was
strong, so the least thing would bring a shower of
pecks in token of disapproval, and if scolded his
attitude was most absurd; he would draw himself
up to a wonderful height, set up his crest feathers,
and stand ready to meet all comers, like a little
fighting cock; and when a finger was pointed at
him he would scold and peck, and flap with his
wings with the utmost fury; and yet if a kind
word was said all his wrath vanished, and he
would come on your hand and prize your fingers
apart, looking for grubs as usual. It seemed
strange that his habit of thus searching for
insects everywhere should continue, though he was
never by any chance rewarded by finding one. A
starling's range of ideas may be summed up in the
word "Grubs." It was always immensely amusing
to strangers to see Richard, when out in the room,
searching with his inquisitive beak in the most
hopeless places with a cheerful happy activity, as
if he always felt sure that long-looked-for grub, for
which he had searched all the years of his life,
must be close by, round the corners somewhere,
under the penwiper, behind that book, amongst<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></SPAN></span>
these coloured silks; and if interfered with he
would give a peck and a chirp, as much as to say,
"Do let me alone, I'm busy; I've got my living to
get, and grubs seem scarce." Richard was the only
bird I have ever had who learnt the nature of
windows, he never flew against them; he had
one or two severe concussions, and being a very
sensible bird he "concluded" he wouldn't do it
again; he would fly backwards and forwards in the
drawing-room in swift flight, but I never feared
either the windows or the fire, as he avoided both.</p>
<p>Several times Master Richard was found flying
about in the drawing-room, and yet no one had let
him out; we could only suppose that by some mischance
the door must have been left open; yet
we all felt morally certain it had been fastened
properly, and there was much puzzlement about
the matter.</p>
<p>However, the mystery was soon solved by my
watching Richard's proceedings. I heard a prolonged
hammering and found he was at work upon
the hasp of his cage door. He managed to raise it
up higher and higher, till by a well-directed peck
he sent it clear out of the loop of wire which held<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></SPAN></span>
it in its place. Still the door was shut, and it
required a good many more pecks to force it open,
but he succeeded in time, and out he flew—delighted
to find himself entirely master of the
situation. Then I watched with much amusement
his deliberate survey of the room.</p>
<p>I was ill at the time, and he first flew to greet
me and talk a little; he hopped upon my hand,
and holding firmly on my forefinger he went
through his usual morning toilette, first an application
to his oil gland, then he touched up all
his plumage, drew out his wing and tail feathers,
fluttered himself into shape, and when quite in order
he began to examine the contents of my breakfast
tray; took a little sugar, looked to see if there were
any grubs under the tray cloth, peered into the
cream jug, decided that he didn't like the salt,
gave me two or three hard pecks to express his
profound affection, and then went off on a voyage
of discovery, <i>autour de ma chambre</i>. He squeezed
himself between every ornament on the mantlepiece,
flew to the drawers, and found there some
grapes which were very much to his taste; so he
was busy for some time helping himself. He<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></SPAN></span>
visited every piece of furniture, threw down all the
little items that he could lift, and, as I was reading,
I did not particularly notice what he was about,
until he came on a small table near my bed, and
then I heard a suspicious noise, and turned to find
the indefatigable bird with his beak in my ink
bottle, and the sheet already plentifully bespattered
with black splashes and little streams of ink trickling
over the table cover; such misplaced zeal was
not to be borne, so Richard had to be caged.
When he was seven months old, his beak began to
turn from black to yellow. The colour began to
show first at the base of the beak, and it went on
gradually, until in a month's time it was nearly all
yellow, though it was black at the tip for some
time longer. As time went on, Richard's talking
powers increased; he quite upset any grave conversation
that might be going on; his voice
dropped at times to a sort of stage whisper, as if
he wished to convey some profound secrets. "Oh,
you little beauty, pretty little dear, 'ow de doo?"
used to mingle most absurdly with the conversation
of his elders and betters. When he could not
have his bath in the conservatory, I
<ins class="transcriber" title="Transcriber's note: extra 'to' removed.">used still</ins>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></SPAN></span>
to give him his glass dish, which we used together,
for he would never enjoy his ablutions without me,
and I became considerably sprinkled in the process.
His delight was to have a water fight, pecking
at my fingers, scolding, as if in a great rage,
using his claws, and all the while calling me "Dear
little Dicky; beauty; pretty little dear," &c., for he
had no harder words to scold with; certainly the
effect was most comical. When he supposed he
had gained the victory, he would settle down to a
regular bathe, fluttering and taking headers until
he was dripping wet and delightfully happy, and
the next thing would be to perch on one's chair,
and shake a regular shower of drops over one's
books or work.</p>
<p>Richard was not, as a rule, at all frightened by
noises, or by being carried about in his cage in
strange places, but early one morning, when he was
out in my room, he flew away from the window
with a piercing scream of terror, and hid himself
quite in the dark, behind my pillow, shivering
with fright, as if he felt his last hour had come.
We found out, when this had occurred several
times, that his <i>bête noire</i> was a great heron, which<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></SPAN></span>
used occasionally to leave the lake, and circle
round the house, high up in the air. It could only
have been by pure instinct that Richard was inspired
with such terror whenever he saw the great
winged bird, and it showed that artificial training,
though it develops additional powers and habits,
in no way interferes with natural instinct.</p>
<p>The starling has a remarkably active brain; its
quickness of movement, swift flight, and never-tiring
activity, all show the working of its inner
mind; but more than that, it seems to be capable
of something akin to reasoning. Richard sometimes
dropped a piece of meat on his sanded floor,
and I have often seen him take it up and well
rinse it in his water, till the sand was cleansed
away, and then he would swallow it; and a dry
piece of meat he would moisten in the same way.
Now this involved a good deal of mental intuition,
and I often wondered whether he found out that
water would remove the sand by accident, or by a
process of thought; in either case, it showed cleverness
and adaptability. So also with the processes
of opening the door of his cage. He had first to
prize up the latch with his beak to a certain height,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></SPAN></span>
and then by sudden sharp pecks send it clear of
the hasp; then descend to the floor, and by straight
pecks send the door open. If he could not get
the door to open thus, he understood at once
that the latch was not clear of the hasp, so he
went back to his perch and pecked at it until
he saw it fall down, and then he knew all was
right.</p>
<p>When the second summer of Richard's life came
round, some young starlings were obtained, as we
much wished to rear a hen as a mate for Richard
in the following year. These birds were placed in
a cage in the same room with him, as we hoped he
would prove their tutor, and save us the trouble of
teaching them. But no; Richard evidently felt
profoundly jealous of these intruders, and day after
day remained perfectly dumb and out of temper.
This went on for a week, and then fearing he
might lose his talking powers, I was obliged to
remove them and pay special attention to him, to
soothe his ruffled feelings. He did not begin to
talk until more than a week had passed by,
evidently resolving to mark in this way his
extreme displeasure at others being admitted to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></SPAN></span>
share our friendship—a curious instance of innate
jealousy in a bird's mind.</p>
<p>For more than five years Richard was a source
of constant pleasure and amusement, and was so
much a part of my home-life that when anything
unusual happened, in the way of a garden-party
or a change in daily events from any cause, one's
first thought was to provide for his comfort being
undisturbed. I confess I dreaded the thought of
his growing old, and could not bear to look on to
the time when I must learn to do without his
sweet, cheering little voice and pleasant companionship.
Alas! that time has come, and I
must now tell how the little life was quenched.</p>
<p>In a room to which he had access, there was a
small aquarium half-full of water thickly covered
with pond-weed. I had left Richard to have his
usual bath whilst I went down to breakfast, and
when I returned I could nowhere find my pet.
His usual bath was unused; I called and searched,
and at last in the adjoining room I saw the little
motionless body floating in the aquarium. The
temptation had been too strong; Richard thought
to have a lovely bathe, had flown down into the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></SPAN></span>
water, no doubt his claws were hopelessly entangled
in the weed and thus, as was the case with
my former starling Dick, the intense love of
bathing led to a fatal end.</p>
<p>The sorrow one feels for the loss of a pet so interwoven
with one's life is very real; many may smile
at it and call it weakness, but true lovers of
animals and birds will know what a blank is felt
and how intensely I shall ever regret the untimely
fate of my much-loved little Richard.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-009" id="illus-009"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p43.png" alt="STARLING IN SEARCH OF FOOD" title="STARLING IN SEARCH OF FOOD" width-obs="617" height-obs="265" /><br/></div>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></SPAN></span></p>
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<SPAN name="VERDANT." id="VERDANT."></SPAN>
<h2>VERDANT.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
NE day in early summer I found on a
gravel walk a poor little unfledged
birdie, sitting calmly looking up into
the air, as if he hoped that some help
would come to him, some pitying hand
and heart have compassion upon his desolate
condition.</p>
</div>
<p>I carried him indoors, and "mothered" the little
helpless thing as well as I could, by feeding him
with hard-boiled yolk of egg mixed with brown
bread and water. Being a hard-billed bird, I
supposed that would be suitable food, and certainly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></SPAN></span>
he throve upon it. The little blue quills began to
tell of coming feathers, his vigorous chirpings
betokened plenty of vocal power, and in due time
he grew into a young greenfinch of the most
irrepressible and enterprising character. His
lovely hues of green and yellow led to the name
of Verdant being bestowed upon him, and his
early experiences made it a somewhat suitable
name.</p>
<p>Poor little man! he had no parents to instruct
him, and he consequently got into all manner of
scrapes. He only learnt the nature of windows
and looking-glasses by bitter experience; flying
against them with great force, he was often taken
up for dead; but his solid little skull resisted all
these concussions, and by pouring cold water upon
his head and some down his throat, he always
managed to recover. He once overbalanced into
a bath, and was nearly drowned; he fell behind
a wardrobe, and was nearly suffocated; later on
he almost squeezed himself to death between the
bars of his cage—in fact, he had endless escapes
of various kinds. He was very amusing in his
early youth. Whilst I was dressing he would<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></SPAN></span>
delight in picking up my scissors, pins, buttonhook,
and anything else he could lift, and would
carry them to the edge of the dressing-table and
throw them down, turning his sly little head to see
where they had fallen. He delighted in mischief,
and was ever on the watch to carry off or misplace
things; and yet he was a winning little pet,
fearless in his confidence, perching on one's head
or shoulder, and hindering all dressing operations
by calmly placing his little body in the way,
regardless of consequences.</p>
<p>He lived in his cage during the day, and next
to him, on the same table, lived a bullfinch—a
very handsome bird, but heavy and lethargic to
a degree; he sang exquisitely, and for that gift I
suppose Verdant admired him, for his delight was
to be as near him as possible. Perched on the top
of his cage, he gazed down at his friend, and in
great measure imitated his singing. Bully, on the
contrary, hated Verdant, and would have nothing
to do with him. The two characters were a great
source of amusement to us.</p>
<p>Verdant was always let out at meal-times to fly
about and enjoy his liberty, and I am sorry to say<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></SPAN></span>
he was always on the look-out for any mischief
that might be possible. Bully's water-jar was
fastened outside by a small pin; this Verdant
discovered was movable, and before long we were
startled by the fall of the said water-jar, the greenfinch
having pulled out the pin; he then began
upon the seed-box, and that also fell, to his great
delight; he was then talked to and scolded, and
up went his pretty yellow wings with angry
flappings, and his open beak scolded back again
in the most hardened manner. He was greatly
interested in watching the numerous birds frequenting
a basket filled with fat which hung outside the
window, and he would swing backwards and
forwards on the tassel of the blind, chirping to the
outsiders, and watching all their little squabbles.
Sunflower seeds were his greatest dainty; he
would perch upon the hand to receive one, or if it
were held between the lips he would flutter and
poise upon the wing to take it. A sort of swing
with a chain and movable wheel was provided,
upon which Verdant soon learned to perch and
swing, whilst he amused himself by pecking at the
chain till he disengaged the sunflower seeds I had<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></SPAN></span>
fixed in the links. When he was more than a
year old, and I thought he might be depended
upon, I tried the rather anxious experiment of
letting him out of doors. He soon became quietly
happy, investigating the wonders of tree branches,
inquiring into the taste of leaves and all kind of
novelties, when two or three sparrows flew at him
and scared him considerably. Away he went,
followed by the sparrows, and I began to repent
my experiment, and feared he might go beyond my
ken and lose himself. He was out nearly an hour,
but at last he returned and went quietly into his
cage. It seemed strange that the wild birds should
so soon discover that he was not one of their clique,
but I suppose Verdant revealed the secret by
looking frightened, and the others could not resist
the fun of chasing him. For more than a year and
a half my birdie was a constant pleasure. Whenever
he entered the dining-room my first act was to
open Verdant's cage, when he would always fly to
the bullfinch's cage and greet him with a chirp,
then look to see if his friend had any provender
that he could get at—a piece of lettuce between
the bars, or a spray of millet to which he could help<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></SPAN></span>
himself; no matter that Bully remonstrated with
open beak, Verdant calmly feasted on stolen goods
<i>con gusto</i>, and then scouted around for any dainties
on the carpet, where he sometimes found a stray
sunflower seed, always his greatest delight. After
his summer moulting he became wonderfully
vigorous, and would fly round the room with such
velocity that I often felt afraid he might some day
fly against the plate-glass windows and injure
himself.</p>
<p>That mournful day came at last! He had been
out as usual at breakfast-time, came on my finger
for a seed, had his bath, and went on the little swing
for more seeds, and flew about with all his joyous life
and vigour. We had only left the room for a few
moments, when, on returning, the dear little bird lay
dead beneath the window, against which he had
flown with such force as to break his neck and
cause instant death.</p>
<p>The sorrow of that moment will never be
forgotten; indeed, I cannot even now think of my
little pet with undimmed eyes—he was a moment
before so full of life and beauty, so fearless, such a
"sonsie" little fellow; and then to hold the little<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></SPAN></span>
golden green body in my hand and watch the fast-glazing
eye, and think that I should never again
have my cheery little friend to greet me and be
glad at my coming, was one of those sharp pangs
that true lovers of nature alone can understand.
From all such I know I shall have sympathy in the
tragic death of my much-loved little Verdant.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-011" id="illus-011"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p49.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="325" height-obs="193" /><br/></div>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-012" id="illus-012"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p51.png" alt="WILD DUCK" title="WILD DUCK" width-obs="290" height-obs="220" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center">
<SPAN name="THE_WILD_DUCKS." id="THE_WILD_DUCKS."></SPAN>
<h2>THE WILD DUCKS.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
<br/><br/><br/>
HEN our grass was being cut the
mowers came upon a wild duck's
nest containing eight eggs; they
were carried whilst still warm and
placed under a sitting hen; in a
week's time she brought out eight
fluffy little ducklings, which were
placed with her under a coop in the farmyard. I
paid them a visit the next day, but, alas! I saw
four little corpses lying about in the grass, the
remaining four were chirping piteously, and the hen<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></SPAN></span>
was in despair at being unable to comfort her
uncanny children. Evidently their diet was in
fault; I thought I would take them in hand, and
therefore had the coop brought round to the
garden, and placed under the drooping boughs of a
deodar near the drawing-room window, where I
could watch over them.</p>
<p>I gave the wee birdies a pan of water, and placed
in it some finely-shred lettuce, with grits and brown
bread crumbs, not forgetting suitable food for the
poor distracted hen. It was charming to hear the
little happy twitterings of the downy babes, how
they gobbled and sputtered and talked to each
other over their repast, swimming to and fro as if
they had been ducks of mature age and experience,
instead of mere yellow fluffs of a day old; and,
finally, they seemed to remember they had a warm,
comfortable mother somewhere, and sought refuge
under her kindly wings, where I left them exchanging
confidences in little drowsy chirps.</p>
<p>I found it needful to guard my little brood
with fine wire-work, for some carrion crows kept
hovering near, and a weasel was constantly on the
watch to carry them off; but these enemies were<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></SPAN></span>
successfully baffled, and three of the ducks survived
all dangers and grew to beautiful maturity, the
fourth having died in infancy from an accidental
peck from the hen. In rearing all wild creatures the
great thing is to study and imitate, as nearly as
possible, their natural surroundings, and especially
their diet. Chopped lettuce and worms made a
fair substitute for their natural food, but the
jubilation that went on when a mass of water-weed,
full of insects, water snails, &c., was brought
them, showed that they knew by instinct what
suited them best. With constant care and attention
they grew very tame, and would eat out of one's
hand, and when let out of the coop would follow
me to a certain heap of dead leaves where worms
abounded, and there, with the most amusing eagerness,
they pounced upon their wriggling prey,
snatching the worms out of each other's beak, and
tumbling over one another in their excitement, all
the while making a special chirp of exceeding
happiness.</p>
<p>They were named Tiny, Sir Francis Drake, and
Luther—I fear the last name had a covert allusion
to the "Diet of Worms."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>When the purple feathers began to show in their
wings, and they considered themselves quite too old
to pay any allegiance to their hen-mother, they began
to absent themselves for some hours each afternoon,
and this, too, in a most secret fashion, for I could
never tell how they disappeared, but they returned
in due time, walking quietly in Indian file, and lay
down in their coop. At last I traced them to a
pond a long distance off—it really seemed as if
they had scented the water, for they had to traverse
a lawn and wood, go across a drive, and through a
hedge and field, and then the pond was in a hollow
where they could not possibly have seen it; but
there I found my little friends in high glee, darting
over the surface of the water, splashing, diving,
sending up showers of spray from their wings, and
going on as if they were possessed. I called to
them, and in a moment they quieted down, and
behaved exactly as children would have done when
caught tripping—they came out of the water and
followed me, in the meekest and most penitent
manner, back to their home under the deodar.</p>
<p>These birds would stay the whole morning with
me in perfect content if they were allowed to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></SPAN></span>
nestle into a wool mat placed at the doorstep of
the French window leading out upon the lawn;
there they would plume themselves and sometimes
preen each other, and I could watch the way in
which the feathers were drawn through the apparently
awkward bill, yet I suppose so suited for
its various uses; anyway the feathers came out
from its manipulations as smooth and sleek as
velvet, and when the toilet was over the head found
its rest behind the wing, and profound sleep
followed. Sometimes my friends would make a
spring upon the sofa by my side, I fear with a
view to forthcoming worms, of which they well
knew I was the purveyor; and nothing could
exceed the slyness of their eyes as they looked up
at me and mutely suggested an expedition to that
heap of leaves!</p>
<p>I must say I derived an immense amount of
amusement from those ducks; they had such
innate character of their own, quite unlike any
other bird I ever came across.</p>
<p>I had often looked forward to the time when they
would take to their wings and come down upon
the lawn from aerial heights with a grand fuss and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></SPAN></span>
fluttering of wings, but that desire they never
gratified. The day came at last when I saw them
circling high up in the air, so high that they were
mere specks in the sky, but where they alighted I
never could find out. They always re-appeared,
walking solemnly (the little hypocrites!) one after
the other, as if they had been doing nothing in
particular, and were now coming in exemplary
fashion to be fed. I believe it is very rarely the
case that wild ducks, however they may appear
domesticated, will remain all the year through with
those who have reared them, and really take their
place in the poultry-yard with the other inmates.
Still it has been known, and I will subjoin an
account given me by a friend, which goes to prove
that such a state of things is possible. My friend
gave me in substance the following account of her
wild ducks:—</p>
<p>"There are different kinds of wild ducks; these
are mallards. The first we had were hatched by
hens. They feed with the other ducks, but show a
decided preference for Indian corn. They are very
troublesome about laying, often leaving their eggs
exposed, where the crows find them and carry them<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></SPAN></span>
off. We gather most of them we find, to take care
of them (though the ducks lay in different places
each time their nest is robbed) until there are
preparations for sitting, when, if we have been
fortunate enough to discover the fact, we add a
number of the previously gathered eggs.</p>
<p>"The sitting duck comes for food every two or
three days, and that is all we see of her for some
time, until at length she may be seen coming
through the meadow, the half-grown mowing grass
behind her trembling and waving in an unusual
manner: by-and-by, the road or shorter grass is
reached, when it is found the proud mother is
bringing home her little fluffy family of perhaps
eight to eleven darkie ducklings—quick, active, tiny
things that refuse at first all friendly advances, but
becoming accustomed to their surroundings soon
behave much in the manner of their elders. There
are dreadful fights on the pond when two or more
little families arrive about the same time, the
mother of one flock tyrannizing over the members
of another, and thus causing many deaths. They
often fly away, but they always come back again.
All through the winter they go under cover with<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></SPAN></span>
the other ducks, but when spring comes they are
not to be found at night; nevertheless they are
sure to be ready for breakfast next morning."</p>
<p>I confess I always had a faint hope that my
ducks might stay with me, or at any rate return
from time to time, but their wild nature prevailed,
and they finally left; only Luther reappeared
alone one day and took his last "diet" from my
hand; but there was a look in his pretty blue eye
which said plainly, "You will never see me again,"
and he had his final caress and departed "to fresh
woods and pastures new."</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-013" id="illus-013"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p58.png" alt="TINY, SIR FRANCIS DRAKE AND LUTHER" title="TINY, SIR FRANCIS DRAKE AND LUTHER" width-obs="312" height-obs="194" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-014" id="illus-014"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p59.png" alt="JAY" title="JAY" width-obs="345" height-obs="325" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="THE_JAY." id="THE_JAY."></SPAN>
<h2>THE JAY.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
Y Jay was taken from the parent
nest, built on the stem of an ivy-covered
tree which had been blown
down in the winter. A young jay
is a curious-looking creature: the exquisite
blue wing feathers begin to show before
the others are more than quills; the eyes are
large and bright blue, and when the great
beak opens it shows a large throat of deepest
carmine, so that it possesses the beauty of colour<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></SPAN></span>
from its earliest days, and when full grown and in
fine plumage it is one of the handsomest of our
birds. In its babyhood my jay was much like
other young things of his kind, always clamouring
for food, and seeming to care for little else, but as
he grew up he attached himself to me with a
wonderful strength of affection which entirely
reversed this order of things, for whenever I came
into the room he was restless and unhappy until I
came near enough for him to feed me, he would
look carefully into his food-trough, and at last
select what he thought the most tempting morsel,
and then put it through the bars of his cage into
my mouth. He would sometimes feed other
people, but as a rule he disliked strangers, and I
have known him even take water in his beak and
squirt it at those who displeased him. On the
whole, a jay is not a very desirable pet; he is
restless in a cage, and too large to be quite
convenient when loose in a room; again, his great
timidity is a drawback—the least noise, the sight
of a cat or dog, puts him in a nervous fright, and he
flutters about with anxious notes of alarm. He is <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></SPAN></span>
seen to best advantage hopping about on a lawn,</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></SPAN></span></p>
<p><br/><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-015" id="illus-015"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p61.png" alt="ANOTHER JAY" title="ANOTHER JAY" width-obs="550" height-obs="311" /><br/> <span class="caption">THE JAY.</span></div>
<p>where he may be attracted by acorns being strewn
in winter and spring. It is a pity that his marauding
habits in game preserves lead to his being so
ruthlessly shot by gamekeepers till it is almost a
rare sight to see the handsome bird and hear his
note of alarm in the woods. One morning I saw
a jay on the lawn near the house, and rather
wondering as to what he was seeking, in a
minute or two I saw him pounce upon a young
half-fledged bird and carry it off in his beak, a
helpless little baby wing fluttering in the air as he
flew away. Their sight is wonderfully keen, and
their cunning is amusing to watch as they steal by
careful steps nearer and nearer to their prey, and
at last by a sudden dart secure it and make off in
rapid flight.</p>
<p>After a year or two my poor jay met with a
very sad fate. A garden-party was to take place,
and knowing the jay's terror of any unusual noise
or upstir, I carried his cage to a quiet room where
I hoped he would be quite happy and hear nothing.</p>
<p>I, however, did not happen to notice that, later
on, the band had established their quarters near
this room, and I suppose the unwonted sounds<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></SPAN></span>
drove the poor bird into a wild state of terror, and
that in his flutterings he had caught his leg in the
bars of the cage; anyway, I went up about the
middle of the party to see how my pet was faring,
when I found him in utter misery clinging to the
bars, his thigh dislocated and his leg hopelessly
broken. It was a mournful duty to carry him
away to merciful hands that would end his torture
by an instant death. For many a day I missed
that bright, handsome birdie who had always a
welcome for me and the offer of such hospitality
as his cage afforded.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></SPAN></span></p>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></SPAN></span></p>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></SPAN></span></p>
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<SPAN name="A_YOUNG_CUCKOO." id="A_YOUNG_CUCKOO."></SPAN>
<h2>A YOUNG CUCKOO.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
OOKING out of my window before six
o'clock one bright morning in early
summer, I chanced to see a large bird
sitting quietly on the gravel walk. Its
feathers were ruffled as if it felt cold and
miserable, and its drooping head told a tale of
unhappiness from some cause or other. Whilst I
was watching it, a little bird darted with all its
force against the larger one, and made it roll over
on the path; it slowly rose up again, but in another
minute a bird from the other side flew against it
and again rolled it over. Such conduct could not<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></SPAN></span>
be tolerated, so, dressing quickly, I went out, and
picking up the strange bird I found it was a young
cuckoo nearly starved to death, having, as I
supposed, lost its foster-parents. The bird was in
beautiful plumage, except down the front of its
throat, where the repeated attacks of the small
birds in showing their usual enmity towards the
cuckoo, had stripped off the feathers. The poor bird
was only skin and bone, nearly dying from lack of
food and persecution, and made no resistance when
I brought him in to see if I could act the part of
foster-mother. Finely-mixed raw meat and brown
bread seemed to me the best substitute for his
insect diet—but he <i>was</i> an awkward baby to feed—though
sinking for want of nourishment he
would not open his great beak, and every half-hour
he had to be fed sorely against his will with
many flapping of his wings and other protests of
his bird nature. He would not stay quiet in any
sort of cage, but when allowed to perch on the rim
of a large basket quite free, he remained happily
enough by the hour together. After a few days
he grew into a vigorous, active bird, flying round
the room, and too wild to be retained with safety<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></SPAN></span>
He was therefore let loose, and soon flew quite out
of sight. I should hope he was quite able to
support himself by his own exertions. I must say
he showed no gratitude for my benevolent succour
in his time of need.</p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-019" id="illus-019"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p69.png" alt="YOUNG CUCKOO ATTACKED BY BIRDS" title="YOUNG CUCKOO ATTACKED BY BIRDS" width-obs="339" height-obs="349" /><br/> <span class="caption">YOUNG CUCKOO ATTACKED BY BIRDS</span></div>
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<SPAN name="THE_TAMING_OF_OUR_PETS." id="THE_TAMING_OF_OUR_PETS."></SPAN>
<h2>THE TAMING OF OUR PETS.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
INCE the love of animal and bird pets
seems so universal, both amongst rich
and poor, it is well that the desire to
keep creatures in captivity should be
wisely directed, and that young people
especially should be led to think of the things that
are requisite to make their pets live and prosper in
some degree of happiness.</p>
</div>
<p>I have often been consulted by some sweet,
impulsive child about its "pet robin" or "dear
little swallow," as to why it did not seem to eat or
feel happy? and have found the poor victims
quietly starving to death on a diet of oats, canarys<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></SPAN></span>
seed, or even green leaves, the infant mind not
feeling quite sure what the "pretty birdies" lived
upon.</p>
<p>It is needless to say we might as well try to keep
a bird on pebbles as give hard grain to a soft-billed
insect-eating bird; but this kind of cruelty is constantly
practised simply from ignorance. I would
therefore endeavour to give a few general rules for
the guidance of those who have a new pet of some
kind, which they wish to domesticate and tame.</p>
<p>To begin with animals; suitable food, a comfortable
home, means of cleanliness, and exercise are
essential to their health and comfort. These four
requisites are seldom fully attended to. Often
a large dog is kept in a back yard in London
chained up week after week—kept alive, it is true,
by food and water, but without exercise, and with
no means of ridding himself of dirt and insects
by a plunge now and then into a pond or river.
No wonder his piteous howls disturb the neighbours,
and he is spoken of as "that horrid dog!"
as if it was his fault poor fellow! that he feels
miserable and uses his only language of complaint.</p>
<p>One would suggest, it is better not to keep such<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></SPAN></span>
a dog in a confined space in town, but if he is to be
retained he should have one or two daily scampers
for exercise, the opportunity of bathing, if he is a
water-dog, plenty of fresh water, dog-biscuits, and
a few bones twice a day, and a clean house and
straw for bedding.</p>
<p>I would call attention to the piece of solid brimstone
so persistently put into dogs' water pans. It
is placed there with the best intention, but is
utterly useless, seeing it is a perfectly insoluble
substance, but a small teaspoonful of powdered
brimstone mixed now and then with the water
would be lapped up when the animal drinks, and
would tend to keep his skin and coat in good
condition.</p>
<p>Different animals need treating according to
their nature and requirements, and surely it is well
to try and find out from some of the many
charming books on natural history all the information
which is needed to make the new pet happy
in its captivity. It is both useless and cruel to try
to keep and tame newly caught, full-grown English
birds. After being used to their joyous life
amongst tree branches, in happy fellowship with<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></SPAN></span>
others of their own kind, living on food of their
own selection, it is hardly likely they can be
reconciled to the narrow limits of a cage and the
dreariness of a solitary life; it is far better not to
attempt keeping them, for what pleasure can there
be in seeing the incessant flutterings of a miserable
little creature that we know is breaking its heart in
longings for liberty, and though it may linger a
while is sure to die at last of starvation and sorrow.
No, the only way to enjoy friendships with full-grown
birds is to tame them by food and kindness,
till such a tie of love is formed that they will come
into our houses and give us their sweet company
willingly.</p>
<p>No cruelty of any kind whatever should be
tolerated for a moment in our treatment of the
tender dumb creatures our Heavenly Father has
given us to be a solace and joy during our life on
earth.</p>
<p>The taming of pets requires a good many different
qualities—much patience, a very quiet manner,
and a cheery way of talking to the little creatures
we desire to win into friendship with us; it is
wonderful how that prevents needless terrors.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>There are no secrets that I am aware of in
taming anything, but love and gentleness. Directly
a bird flutters, one must stop and speak kindly;
the human voice has wonderful power over all
animated nature, and then try to see what is the
cause of alarm, and remove it if possible. In
entering a room where your pet is, always speak to
it, and by the time you have led it to give an
answering chirp, the taming will go on rapidly,
because there is an understanding between you,
and the little lonely bird feels it has a friend, and
takes you instead of its feathered companions, and
begins to delight in your company.</p>
<p>A person going silently to a cage and dragging
out the bottom tray will frighten any bird into
flutterings of alarm, which effectually hinders any
taming going on; but approach gently, talking to
the bird by name, pull the tray quietly a little way,
and then stop and speak, and so draw it out by
degrees and the thing is done, and no fright
experienced. A better way still is to have a
second cage, and let birdie hop into that while you
clean the other, and then it is amusing to see the
pleasure and curiosity shown on his return when<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></SPAN></span>
he finds fresh seed, pure water, and some dainty
green food supplied; the loud chirpings tell of
great delight and satisfaction, and the dreaded
process is at last looked forward to as a time of
recreation. It is much best that one person only
should attend to the needs of a pet; indeed, I
doubt if taming can ever go on satisfactorily
unless this rule is observed; a bird is perplexed
and scared if plans are changed, and, not knowing
what is required of him, he grows flurried, and the
training of weeks past may be undone in a single
day.</p>
<p>Only those who have tried to educate birds can
have any idea of the way in which their little minds
will respond to affectionate treatment shown in a
sensible way. They have a language of their own
which we must set ourselves to learn if we would
be <i>en rapport</i> with them. Their different chirpings
each mean something, and a little observation will
soon show what it is; for instance, my canary
fairly shrieks when she sees lettuce on the breakfast-table,
and her grateful note of thanks when it
is bestowed upon her is of quite a different
character. So also is her tender little sound of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></SPAN></span>
rejoicing when I give her some broken egg-shell;
she seems to value it immensely, and chirps to me
with a great piece of it in her bill, quite regardless
of good manners. I often think with pain how
much birds must suffer when hour after hour they
call and chirp and entreat for something they want,
which they can see and long for, and yet the dull-minded
human beings they live with pay no heed
to them, food and water are given, but, in many
cases, nothing more all day long, not even a little
chickweed or groundsel, or the much-needed egg-shell
to supply strength to their little bones. A
bright word or two for birdie now and then, and a
few friendly chirps as we enter the room, would do
much to cheer the little prisoner's life, and would
soon bring a charming response in fluttering wings
and evident pleasure at our return.</p>
<p>This state of things cannot be attained in a day
or a month; it is only by persistent kindness,
exercised patiently, until the little heart is won to
a perfect trust in you as a true friend.</p>
<p>Birds can easily be trained to come out for
their daily bath, and then go back to their cage
of their own accord, but it needs patience at first.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></SPAN></span>
The bird must never be caught by the hand or
driven about, but if the cage is put on the floor
with some nice food in it, and the bird is called
and gently guided to it, though it may take an
hour to do it the first time, it will at last hop in,
and then the door may be very quietly shut.
Next time he will know what you wish and will
be much more amenable, until at last it will be
the regular thing to go home when the bath is
over.</p>
<p>I would condemn the practice of making birds
draw up their own water; they are never free to
satisfy their thirst without toilsome effort, and are
much more liable to accident when chained to an
open board than when kept in a cage. It is also
sad to know that dozens of birds are starved to
death or die of thirst whilst being taught this
trick—frequently but one out of many is found to
have the aptitude to learn it.</p>
<p>It is a great help if some specially favourite food
can be discovered by which the pet creature can
be rewarded for good conduct. I <i>never</i> take away
food or water to induce obedience by privation—a
practice which I fear is often resorted to in training<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></SPAN></span>
creatures for public exhibition—but an additional
dainty I much enjoy to bestow, as a means of
winning what is at first, it is true, merely
cupboard love, but it soon grows into something
far deeper, a lifelong friendship, quite apart from
the food question.</p>
<p>Cleanliness is a <i>very</i> important item in a bird's
happiness. Whilst kept in a cage with but little
sand and an outside water-glass which affords no
means of washing its feathers, a bird is apt to
become infested with insects; it is tormented by
them day and night, and having no means of
ridding itself of them, it grows thin and mopy,
and at last dies a miserable death.</p>
<p>There should be a bath supplied daily, suited
to the size of the bird, and so planned that the
cage itself may not get wet, else it may give the
bird cramp to have to sit on a damp perch or floor.
When its feathers are dry, some insect powder may
be carefully dusted under the bird's wings, at the
back of his head, where parasites are especially apt
to congregate, and all over the body, only taking
care that the powder may not get into the bird's
eyes. The cage itself should be well washed with
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></SPAN></span>
carbolic soap and water,
all the corners scrubbed
with a small
brush; and, when
dry, it might be
sponged with carbolic
lotion over the
wire-work to kill any
insects which may yet
remain.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-021" id="illus-021"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p79.png" alt="ARABESQUE" title="ARABESQUE" width-obs="391" height-obs="577" /></div>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></SPAN></span></p>
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<SPAN name="BIRDIE." id="BIRDIE."></SPAN>
<h2>BIRDIE.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
MONGST all the different birds which
are kept in cages, either for their
beauty or song, there is one which to
my mind far excels all others, not only
in its vocal powers, which are remarkable,
but for its very unusual intelligence. I refer to
the Virginian nightingale. It is a handsome,
crimson plumaged bird, rather smaller than a
starling, not unfrequently seen in bird-sellers'
collections, but seen there to the worst possible
advantage, for, being extremely shy and
sensitive, and taking keen notice of everything<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></SPAN></span>
around, the slightest voice or movement in the
shop will make it flutter against the bars of its
cage in an agony of fright, and it therefore looks
a most unlikely bird to become an interesting pet;
but I will try to show what may be done by gentle
kindness to overcome this natural timidity. This
will be seen in the history of Birdie, my first
Virginian nightingale, my daily companion for
fourteen years.</p>
</div>
<p>He had belonged to a relative, and there was no
way of tracing the age of the bird when first obtained;
I can therefore only speak of those years
in which he was in my possession. Birdie had
been accustomed to live in a cage on a high shelf
in the kitchen, well cared for, no doubt, but, untamed
and unnoticed, he led a lonely life, and was
one of the wildest birds I ever met with. For
many months his flutterings, when any one came
near his cage, could not be calmed, but by always
speaking to him when entering the room, and if
possible giving him a few hemp-seeds or any little
dainty, he grew to endure one's presence; then,
later on, he would begin to greet one with a little
clicking note, though still retreating to the furthest<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></SPAN></span>
corner of the cage, and a year or two passed by
before he would take anything out of my hand, but
this was attained by offering him his one irresistible
temptation, <i>i.e.</i>, a lively spider; this he
would seize and hold in his beak while he hopped
about the cage, clicking loudly with delight. After
a time I began to let him out for an hour or
two, first releasing him when he was moulting
and could not fly very easily. He learned to go
back to his cage of his own accord, and was rewarded
by always finding some favourite morsel
there. Thus, by slow degrees, he lost all fear, and
attached himself to me with a strength of affection
that expressed itself in many endearing little ways.
When called by name he would always answer
with a special chirp and look up expectantly,
either to receive something or to be let out. His
song was very similar to the English nightingale,
extremely liquid and melodious, with the same
"jug-jug," but more powerful and sustained. On
my return to the room after a short absence he
would greet me with delight, fluttering his outspread
wings and singing his sweetest song, looking
intently at me, swaying his head from side to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></SPAN></span>
side, and whilst this ecstasy of song lasted he
would even refuse to notice his most favourite food,
as if he must express his joy before appetite could
be gratified. After a few years he seemed to adopt
me as a kind of mate! for as spring came round
he endeavoured to construct a nest by stealing little
twigs out of the grate and flying with them to a
chosen retreat behind an ornamental scroll at the top
of the looking-glass. He spent a great deal of time
fussing about this nest, which never came to anything,
but he very obligingly attended to my supposed
wants by picking up an occasional fly, or
piece of sugar, and, hovering before me on the
wing, would endeavour to put it into my mouth;
or, if he was in his cage, would mince up a spider
or caterpillar with water, and then, with his beak
full of the delicious compound, would call and
chirp unceasingly until I came near and "made
believe" to taste it, and not till then would he be
content to enjoy it himself.</p>
<p>During an absence from home, Birdie once escaped
out of doors, and was seen on the roof
of the house singing in high glee; the servants
called him, the cage was put out, but all to no<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></SPAN></span>
purpose, he evidently meant to have "a real good
time," and kept flying from one tree to another
until he was a quarter of a mile from home. A
faithful servant kept him in sight for three hours,
by which time hunger made him return to our
garden, where he feasted on some raspberries, took
a leisurely bath in a tub of water, and at length
flew in at a bedroom window, where he was safely
caged. I never knew a bird with so much intelligence,
one might almost say reasoning power. He
was once very thirsty after being out of his cage
for many hours, and at luncheon he went to an
empty silver spoon and time after time pretended
to drink, looking fixedly at me as if he felt sure I
should know what he meant, and waited quietly
until I put water into the spoon. Another curious
trait was his sense of humour. Whilst I was
writing one day he went up to a rose, which was
at the far end of the table, and began pecking at
the leaves. I told him not to do it, when, to my
surprise, he immediately ran the whole length of
the table and made a scolding noise up in my face,
and then, just like a naughty child, went back and
did it again. He would sometimes try to tease<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></SPAN></span>
me away from my writing by taking hold of my
pen and tugging at a corner of the paper, and
whenever the terrible operation of cutting his
claws had to be gone through, he quietly curled up
his toes and held the scissors with his beak, so that
it needed two people to circumvent his clever resistance.
He had wonderfully acute vision, and
would let me know directly a hawk was in sight,
though it might be but the merest speck in the sky.
He once had a narrow escape, for a sparrow-hawk
made a swoop at him in his cage just outside the
drawing-room window, and had no one been at
hand would probably have dragged him through
the bars. Whenever he saw a jay or magpie, a
jackdaw or cat, his clicking note always told
me of some enemy in sight. For many years
Birdie was my cherished pet, never was there a
closer friendship. As I passed his cage each night
I put my hand in to stroke his feathers, and was
always greeted with a low, murmuring note of
affection never heard in the daytime.</p>
<p>It was with deep concern that I watched Birdie's
declining strength; there was no disease, only
weakness, and at last appetite failed, but even then<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></SPAN></span>
he would take whatever I offered him and hold it
in his beak as if to show that even to the last he
would try to please me as far as he could, but he
wanted nothing but the quiet rest which came at
length, and dear little Birdie is now only a cherished
memory of true friendship.</p>
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<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-024" id="illus-024"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p87.png" alt="ZÖE, THE NUTHATCH" title="ZÖE, THE NUTHATCH" width-obs="309" height-obs="150" /><br/> <span class="caption">ZÖE, THE NUTHATCH.</span></div>
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<SPAN name="ZOE_THE_NUTHATCH." id="ZOE_THE_NUTHATCH."></SPAN>
<h2>ZÖE, THE NUTHATCH.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
VISIT to a bird-dealer's shop always
awakens a deep feeling of pity in my
mind as I look at the unhappy, flutter-little
captives, and think of the breezy
hill-sides and pleasant lanes from which
they came, to be shut up in cages a few inches
square, with but little light, a stifling atmosphere,
strange diet, and no means of washing their
ruffled feathers or stretching their wings in flight.
Truly, they are in evil case, and no wonder so
many die off within a few days of their capture!
In some places they are better cared for than in
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></SPAN></span>
others, but in most bird-shops dirt and misery
seem to prevail amongst the tenants of the cages.</p>
</div>
<p>One such place I have often visited for the sake
of meeting with live curios. The owner was a
kind-hearted woman, and did not intentionally ill-treat
her live-stock; but the shop was very dark
and dirty, and one could but wonder how anything
contrived to live in such close, stivy air. On
going in one day, I nearly walked over a large, pensive-looking
duckling which stood in the middle of
the shop. His brother had been considered suitable
for the adornment of a table-lamp with a looking-glass
stand, on which a bright yellow duckling was
placed, as if swimming on water; this bird, having
some darker markings, was of no use for that purpose
and had been allowed to live. He had a
strange, old-fashioned look, and gave one the impression
that he was already tired of life and felt
bored. A lark on its little piece of turf, fluttering
and looking up for a glimpse of blue sky; a dejected
robin, with no tail to speak of, and sundry
other sad-looking specimens met my pitying gaze,
and I suppose I had caught their sorrowful expression,
for I was startled by a sharp voice near me,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></SPAN></span>
saying, "What's the matter?" I turned to
reply, and found the inquiry was made by a grey
parrot, who introduced himself as "Pretty Poll,"
and was ready to make friends to any extent.
But my attention had been caught by seeing what
looked like a nuthatch: only it was moping and
ill, with eyes shut and feathers ruffled. I asked
about it, and was told it had some injury to its
foot, and was unsaleable, as the woman feared it
would not live. I made a bid for it, and it was
accepted. I confess I was not sorry to leave the
stilling air of the shop and bring my new pet
home. I fitted up a large cage with pieces of
wood and tree-bark, a pan for bathing, sand, and
fine gravel; a bone with a little meat upon it hung
from the roof of the cage, and other suitable food
was placed in a tin. The poor birdie was a pitiable
object for some days; she ate now and then,
but remained for the most part quite still, with
closed eyes, from morning till night. Then she
began to creep up and down the small tree-stem I
had placed in the cage. She took a bath and
plumed herself, and in less than a fortnight she
became quite well and vigorous, and very amusing<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></SPAN></span>
in a variety of ways. Never was there a more
active, busy little creature.</p>
<p>Her characteristic was life, so she was named
"Zöe," and before long she seemed to recognize
her name, and would give an answering chirp.
The pieces of bark appeared to afford a never-failing
interest. They were examined and investigated
in every crevice. Like a little woodpecker
hanging head downwards, Zöe would hammer at a
nut fixed in the cracks of the bark, and would
hide away unfortunate mealworms not required for
immediate use.</p>
<p>Zöe regularly honeycombed the little tree-stem
with her incessant hammering, and in the numerous
holes thus made she kept her supply of food. No
sooner was her tin filled with small pieces of raw
meat than she began stowing them all away for
future use. She seemed to exercise a good deal
of thought about the matter; a morsel would be
put in and out of a hole half a dozen times before
it was considered settled and suitable, and then
it had to be well rammed in and fixed, and off
went the busy little creature to fetch another
piece, and so on, till all was disposed of, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></SPAN></span>
the tin left empty. Zöe was greatly exercised
by a half-opened Brazil nut: it was too large to
fix into the bark, it would not keep steady while
she pecked at it, and yet there were good things
inside which must be obtained. I watched her
various devices with great amusement. She hung
head downwards from the tree-stem and hammered
at it on the ground, but it shifted about, and she
made no way; then she carried it in her beak and
tried fitting it into various places. I hope she did
not swear at it, but she seemed to think the thing
was possessed, for it was not like the ordinary
nuts: she could manage them; they would go
into holes in the bark; this wouldn't fit anywhere,
and yet she could not give it up. At last, by a
bright inspiration, she got it fixed into a space
between the tree-stem and the side of the cage.
Now she was in high glee, and all the household
might have heard the rapping that went on while
she scooped out the inside and chipped off pieces
to be hidden carefully away in some secret place.</p>
<p>Zöe had a cosy nook under a sloping piece of
bark, to which she would retire at times, and
sitting down on the bottom of her cage in the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></SPAN></span>
shadow, looked like a little grey mouse. When
appetite brought her out again, she would go to
her tree-larder and pick out the choice hidden
morsels, as if they were the insects which would
have been her food if her lot had been cast
amongst tree-branches instead of in a cage.</p>
<p>When winter began, Zöe was placed in the
conservatory, where a tame robin often came
for a few hours to enjoy his daily crumbs and
the pleasant warmth of the air. Bobby was
greatly puzzled at the nuthatch, watched her
hammerings from the top of the cage, walked
round it, surveying the provisions inside, and at
last he made up his mind to get in somehow
and partake of the longed-for dainties. I could
see quite plainly the attraction, the hesitation,
the pros and cons, and then, finally, the resolve,
and felt very curious as to how the birdish mind
would carry out its intention. There was only
one place, where the bars were rather widely
apart, so that the nuthatch could have got out
if she had possessed half the wits of the robin.
After a quiet survey and a few flights backwards
and forwards, Bobby saw this place, and made<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></SPAN></span>
towards it, sat and considered for a few seconds,
and finally went in. The nuthatch was sitting
quietly under her piece of bark, and did not see
him; so he picked up the desired morsels, and,
after a few minutes, went out where it came in.
These visits he repeated frequently through the
day, but once I was amused to see that he forgot
"the way out," and put himself in a great fuss,
realized that a cage was a prison, and flew up
and down in a fright, until by chance he saw the
opening, and glided out. At last Zöe caught him
in the act of purloining her goodies, and was
most indignant. A rush at the thief, with an
angry chirp, sent Bobby flying away in ignominious
haste, a wiser, but not a repentant bird;
for he continued his robberies, only with care to
avoid being caught; he ventured only a little
way into the cage, ready to go out at a moment's
notice.</p>
<p>Zöe had a good deal of quiet humour, and was
a character in her way. She considered me very
attentively one day, with a roguish look in her
black eyes, and then, going to her tree-stem
larder, she pulled out a hidden mealworm and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></SPAN></span>
held it up for me to see, with an evident wish
that I should know about it, and possibly with
a little birdish triumph that she possessed such
delights; and then it was put back again and
well rammed into its crevice until the hungry
moment should arrive. After a few months Zöe
became tame enough to be let out of her cage,
and would hop quietly about the room, and, like
a small, grey-coated detective, would peer about
stealthily under tables and chairs in search of
live dainties; and extremely pretty she looked
as she crept up the curtains with jerky motions,
evidently thinking they were tree-stems where, by
careful search, delightful centipedes and beetles
might be found.</p>
<p>I do not know if naturalists have remarked that
the nuthatch has a very limited range of vision.
Zöe could see nothing beyond twelve or fourteen
inches; the most tempting mealworm might lie
on the floor of the cage unnoticed if she happened
to be on her tree-stem; and I have tried
bringing the insect nearer by degrees, and found
that only when within a foot of her eyes could
she see it, and I fancy then only indistinctly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></SPAN></span>
as she would peer about excitedly, as if uncertain
what it was, until near enough to be in the focus
of clear vision, and then, by a sudden dart, she
would seize and flit away with it.</p>
<p>At first Zöe's roosting-place was under the
curved piece of bark lying on the floor of her
cage, but after a time she took up her nightly
quarters in a small box which hooked on to the
side of her cage. It was a very cramped and
uncomfortable lodging, and I wondered how she
contrived to squeeze into such a small space. It
occurred to me that a little cocoa-nut with a hole
at one end would be the sort of sleeping-chamber
she would prefer, as being most like a hole in a
tree-stem, in which, probably, nuthatches roost.</p>
<p>An empty cocoa-nut was, therefore, provided.
With birdish distrust and caution Zöe only eyed
it for some days, then perched on it; but finally
she went in, and it was amusing to see her evident
delight: how she went incessantly in and out,
and turned round and round inside, and finally
sat down and remained in it for an hour or more,
quite still and happy, peering out at any one
passing by, her sleek head and neck looking<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></SPAN></span>
remarkably like a snake, and her furtive black
eye observantly watching all that went on around
her.</p>
<p>Her cage, when not in the conservatory, was
placed on a table in the drawing-room, close to
where I was sitting, and thus she was frequently
spoken to and noticed, which is one great secret
in taming birds and animals. They soon learn
to greet one with some token of recognition,
and their often solitary lives are brightened and
cheered by such companionship.</p>
<p>An amusing thing occurred one day while I
was away from home for a few hours. Zöe's
cage had been placed in the sun, and a friend
of mine, glancing at the bird, saw her in an
apparently dying state, her head hanging on one
side, the beak wide open, all the feathers ruffled,
and the whole aspect of the bird indicating the
near approach of death. The bell was rung, the
servants came in, and whispered consultations
were held as to what could be done, and "What
would mistress say?" seemed the uppermost
thought. All at once, Zöe jumped down and
began a vigorous hammering at her tree-stem, as<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></SPAN></span>
full of life as ever, and she was at once voted
"a little impostor." When I returned and heard
the account, it was easy to explain that my
birdie had been enjoying a sun bath, which
always gives rise to most lackadaisical positions
while the state of dreamy absorption lasts.</p>
<p>The mealworms which Zöe mainly lived upon
were kept in a tin biscuit-box, which she knew
well by sight, and one day, being too busy to
spare time to feed her with them, I opened her
cage-door and put the box down a little way
from the cage on the floor, and placed a small
log of wood for her to descend by. Down she
came, perched on the edge of the box, looked at
the layers of flannel which covered her delightful
worms, and tugged at one corner after another
till she obtained her prey. After swallowing two
or three, she thought a little store might be useful,
and began taking them in her beak, and
searching for some convenient hiding-places, but
as I did not desire to have the drawing-room
neatly ornamented with mealworms, I had to
prevent that little design being carried out. My
tiny pet lived happily for about a year, but<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></SPAN></span>
when the moulting time came she grew weak
and ill, and did not seem to have strength to
produce her new plumage; for, in spite of all
possible care, she drooped and died. She lives
in my memory as one of the most gentle, innocent
birdies I have ever had, absolutely without
temper, contented and cheerful, a perfect pattern
of industry, chipping out holes in her log of wood,
and flitting about with a happy little chirp from
morning till night, a bright example of what a
cheery life may be lived, even by a caged bird,
when kindly treated and cared for thoughtfully.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-025" id="illus-025"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p98.png" alt="NUTHATCH IN A COCOANUT" title="NUTHATCH IN A COCOANUT" width-obs="305" height-obs="183" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-026" id="illus-026"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p99.png" alt="TITMICE IN PURSUIT OF BEES" title="TITMICE IN PURSUIT OF BEES" width-obs="392" height-obs="628" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="TITMICE." id="TITMICE."></SPAN>
TITMICE.</div>
<p><ANTIMG style="float: left;" src="images/illus-i-p98.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="26" height-obs="29">
MUST own my strong
liking for these active,
saucy little birds. For eighteen
years I have always had a basket
hung just outside the dining-room
window containing their favourite
food, <i>.e.</i>, fat of any kind, cooked
or uncooked; and most amusing it
is to watch their little odd ways and
tempers whilst frequenting the said
basket. Four species thus studied
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></SPAN></span>
showed distinct characteristics. Directly I put
out a fresh supply of fat, the Cole Tit would
spend all his time and energies in carrying it
away, piece by piece, to lay by in store for the
future, in crevices in the bark of trees, and this
work he would carry on with misplaced energy
until the basket was emptied. The Greater Tit
and Marsh Tit came quietly for the supply of
their own personal needs, and to feed their young
in nesting time, but the Blue Tit was by far the
most amusing. His attitudes were quite a study;
he seemed rather to prefer being upside down;
clinging to the basket and hammering away at
the hard fat, head downwards, was a favourite
pose; then, when any one else desired a share,
he would make a stand with open beak and
outspread wings and enact "king of the castle"
in the most impertinent manner, considering his
tiny dimensions. A guerilla warfare seems always
going on amongst these Blue Tits. If one was
in the basket and remaining perfectly still, I knew
two or three others were meditating a sudden
combined assault, but it seemed as if the steady
gaze of the titmouse in possession kept them at</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-027" id="illus-027"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p100.png" alt="TITMICE" title="TITMICE" width-obs="371" height-obs="500" /><br/> <span class="caption">TITMICE.</span></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></SPAN></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>bay for a time. At length a twittering scrimmage
ensued, and the combatants disappeared. I once
coaxed a Blue Tit to live in the dining-room for
a few days, and he made himself very happy,
constantly flitting about in search of insects, running
up and down the curtains like a veritable
mouse, alighting on any joint of cold meat which
happened to be on the sideboard, and making an
excellent dinner in Bohemian fashion. Of course
his fearless curiosity led him into difficulties. He
would sit on the edge of a jug and peer down to
see what it might contain, and his plumage was
not improved by the baths of milk or cocoa which
he met with in the pursuit of knowledge of this
kind. Some years ago an empty cocoa-husk with
a hole at one end, furnished with nesting materials,
was hung up just above the basket of fat. A large
tit began to build in it, but unhappily for him a
Blue Tit had also been house-hunting, and determined
to settle in it. I saw the matter decided
by a pitched battle between the two; they fought
desperately, rolling over and over on the lawn,
pecking, chirping, beating each other with their
wings, like little feathered furies as they were.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>At last it was ended, and Blue Tit was victor.
It was pretty to see the tiny pair building their
nest, with little happy twitterings and confabulations
over each piece of moss or dried leaf,
and so fearless were they that a large blind was
often let down close to and over the husk without
disturbing the inmates. When the hen bird was
sitting, the cock would bring a green caterpillar
for her every four or five minutes, and sometimes
take her place on the nest. I often took the husk
down from its nail to show the brave little bird
sitting on her eggs. If touched she would hiss
and set up her feathers, but did not leave her nest.
When the young birds were hatched, the parents
were incessantly at work from early morning till
late at night bringing small caterpillars about
every two minutes to supply the wants of the
tiny brood. One can judge of the usefulness of
these birds in ridding our gardens of insect pests
by the amount consumed by this one pair. By a
moderate calculation, and judging by what I saw
one afternoon, I believe they must have brought
3,570 in the course of one week. At last the day
came when five little blue heads peeped out of the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></SPAN></span>
entrance to the husk. One after another the little
ones flew into branches near by; the last one I
held in my hand for a while that I might draw its
portrait. Fearing it might be hungry if I kept it
too long, I placed it in a cage on the lawn, where
the old birds found it and fed it for me through
the bars. I then brought it in again, and having
finished its likeness, had the pleasure of restoring
it to its parents. The Blue and Cole Tit often
choose the inside of a disused pump as their
nesting-place. A Cole Tit built in an old pump
in our grounds for many years, the curved spout
being its mode of ingress and egress. I could
open a small door and look at the pretty little hen
on her nest, and then at her numerous family, and
watch their growth till old enough to fly. Certainly
young birds show a grand lesson of obedience,
for creeping out into the world through
a dark, curved pipe, must have seemed a rather
perilous mode of exit. Another less fortunate
Cole Tit built in a post-box placed by a garden
gate, and seemed in no way disconcerted when
letters came in suddenly around and upon her. She
usually laid eighteen eggs in a deep, soft nest of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></SPAN></span>
moss and hair. As boys were apt to take this
nest year after year, a lock was placed to the box
to protect the little bird; but the genus boy has
no pity, and through the slit for the letters, some
cruel urchin, vexed at not being able to take the
nest, put in a stick and killed the poor little
mother and broke the eggs. For several years a
Blue Tit chose to build her nest in the lower part
of a stone vase in the garden. There was a hole
for drainage in the bottom, and through this hole
the little bird found a circular space just suited
for her nest. That particular vase could not be
filled with plants till long after all the rest were
gay with flowers. We were obliged to wait till
the domestic affairs of the Tit family were ended,
else their fate would have been sad indeed. There
is no doubt that these birds do contrive to secure
their share of peas and other things in the kitchen
garden, and are by no means favourites with the
gardeners, but I still maintain that the good they
do in destroying insects counterbalances their evil
doings in other respects. However, they sometimes
commit other misdemeanours. My head
gardener came to me one day looking very serious,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></SPAN></span>
and began by asking what he was to do about
"those Blue Tits." "Why, what have they been
doing?" I asked. "Two of them have been
sitting at the entrance of one of the hives, and
they have picked off and killed every bee as it
came out, and now they have begun upon a second
hive." "Well, you had better hang up some
potatoes stuck over with feathers, and that will
frighten them away." "I've done that, ma'am,
and they sit on the potatoes and look at me!"
It was a trying case of utter contumacy, and at
last I was obliged, for the sake of saving my bees,
to let one little victim be shot and hung up as "an
awful example" to the rest, and it proved an
effectual remedy. My basket of fat used to prove
very attractive all through the cold weather, when,
I suppose, these tiny birds need the caloric it
supplies; they always left off coming as soon as
the days were warm and insects plentiful.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-028" id="illus-028"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p107.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="239" height-obs="78" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-029" id="illus-029"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p108.png" alt="BLANCHE THE PIGEON" title="BLANCHE THE PIGEON" width-obs="347" height-obs="215" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="BLANCHE_THE_PIGEON." id="BLANCHE_THE_PIGEON."></SPAN>
<h2>BLANCHE, THE PIGEON.</h2></div>
<div class="wrap_area">
<ANTIMG src="images/illus-p-p108.png" alt="P" title="P" width-obs="72" height-obs="103">
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<p class='ornate'>
IGEONS possess a great deal more
individuality of character than any one
would suppose who has only seen them
in flocks picking up grain in a farmyard,
like domestic fowls.</p>
</div>
<p>They show to better advantage when only a few
pairs are kept and fed daily at some settled place;
but to make really interesting pets two are quite
sufficient, and may be made very amusing companions.
Some species may possess more mental
capacity than others. Those I have to speak of
were snow-white trumpeters. A pair was sent to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></SPAN></span>
me, but, to my sorrow, I found on opening the
basket that the male bird had escaped on the way;
so I could only put the solitary hen in a cage, and
do all that was possible in the way of plentiful
food and kind care to make her happy; but all
to no purpose. The poor bird pined and grew
weaker every day, till she became unable to get
up to her perch. I used, therefore, to go to her
every evening and place her comfortably for the
night; and she soon grew tame enough to like
being caressed and talked to. When spring returned
I obtained a male pigeon, and hoped
Blanche would accept him for a mate, but she
showed a great deal of temper, and made him so
unhappy that he had to be exchanged for another—a
fine snow-white bird like herself, and, happily,
of such a forbearing disposition as to endure
being considerably "hen-pecked." Now began the
curious part of Blanche's history. The pair built
a nest in a small pigeon-house close to my window,
so that I was able to watch all the family
arrangements with much interest. Blanche liked
to be with me for some hours in the morning,
sitting on the table pluming herself, quite at ease,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></SPAN></span>
and when that operation was ended she generally
seated herself on a large Bible which lay at one
end of the dining-table, and there she usually
went to sleep; a white dove resting on the Word
suggested to one's mind many a beautiful emblematic
thought. These visits to me were paid
most regularly when a nest was finished and the eggs
were being hatched; she then shared the duties of
incubation by turns with her mate. He would sit
patiently for four hours on the nest, while Blanche
spent that time with me; then, punctually at the
right moment, she would wake up, and, lazily
stretching her wings, would fly out at the open
window to see how affairs were getting on at
home, and take her place on the nest for her
appointed four hours.</p>
<p>She was a most eccentric bird in the matter of
laying eggs. I sometimes found she had made
me a present of one, neatly placed amongst my
working materials! In fact, wherever she happened
to be upon the table would be deemed by
her a suitable place for laying; and, as I always
conveyed the eggs to her nest, her little freaks did
not much matter. But at last she took it into her<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></SPAN></span>
wilful little head to lay her eggs in the coal-scoop,
an arrangement which by no means improved
her snowy plumage. She had a pretty crest,
which curved over her head, and her feet were
clothed with rather long feathers reaching to the
claws. At our breakfast-time she would often sit
close to my plate, letting me stroke her and draw
out her pretty wings. I must own she was as
conceited as any peacock, throwing herself on her
side and stretching out a feathered foot, little
dreaming how she was being laughed at for her
affected attitudes. If she had a fault, it was her
temper! I have seen her go up to her mate
and give him a most uncalled-for peck, and he—amiable
bird!—would bear all her unkindness so
meekly, only answering by a propitiatory coo.
Blanche reared many sons and daughters, but
none were so interesting as herself. I ascribe
her unusual tameness to the loving care bestowed
upon her in her long illness. When once a bird's
affections are won in that way they generally
remain firm friends for life.</p>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-030" id="illus-030"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p112.png" alt="GERBILLES" title="GERBILLES" width-obs="358" height-obs="250" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="GERBILLES." id="GERBILLES."></SPAN>
<h2>GERBILLES.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
HESE curious little animals were
brought to my notice by a scientific
friend who had seen them at the
Zoological Gardens, and heard that they
were to be obtained there by applying to
Mr. Bartlett.</p>
</div>
<p>As I always regretted the untimely death of my
pet jerboa, I thought these little rodents would fill
his place, and prove amusing pets. And, accordingly,
I paid a visit to the Zoo, and found a whole
colony of gerbilles of all ages living very amicably
together in a large, strongly-built wooden box, with
bran, oats, and nuts for provender.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>It was no easy matter to secure a pair of suitable
size and age. I could but admire the patience of
the attendant who made persevering attempts to
catch the nimble creatures for me, but they leaped
and sprang about, darted through his fingers,
disappeared into holes, and seemed to enjoy his
discomfiture. At length a lively pair, with sleek
skins and perfect tails, were securely caged.</p>
<p>Then I was warned to keep them in a tin-lined
cage, as they would "gnaw through anything," even
the solid teak chest in which they were kept was
being rapidly demolished by their powerful incisors.</p>
<p>The gerbilles were placed in a plant case, four
feet long, with glass sides and top, through which
their gambols could easily be seen. The case had
a glass partition, and on one side lived a pair of
chipmunks, or striped American squirrels. They
were highly incensed at their new neighbours,
springing with all their force against the partition,
with low growlings, casting up the cocoa fibre with
their hind legs, as if to try and hide them from
their view. They soon found a little chink, through
which, I am afraid, some very strong language was
launched at the new-comers.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>Happily the gerbilles did not mind. They found
delightful tree-roots to gnaw at, plenty of food, and
freedom to frisk and frolic to their heart's content, so
their neighbours were free to growl as much as they
liked, and they in their turn raised a hill of fibre
and played at hide-and-seek in their new domain.</p>
<p>But let me now describe these gerbilles. I believe
there are several species, differing somewhat
in appearance. These were fawn-coloured, with
sleek, soft fur, which, like the chinchilla, was blueish
next to the skin. They were about the size of
small rats, with little ears and long tails, with a
black tuft at the end. The fur was white underneath,
the eyes jet black and very large, and long
black whiskers, which were always in motion. The
hind legs being longer than the front ones, enabled
the creature to spring and leap along the ground
with great rapidity, as I found to my cost one
night, when five of them got out of their case and
gave us an hour's occupation before they could
be recaptured. One managed to get inside an
American organ, and effectually baffled all our
efforts to secure him. There was no help for it
he had to be left there, and I went away with an<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></SPAN></span>
anxious mind as to what his busy teeth would be
employed upon all night; and, sure enough, next
morning a velvet curtain was found nibbled and
tattered, and being converted into a nest for the
enterprising gerbille! They became very amusing,
tame little creatures, ready to take dandelions, nuts,
or any little dainty, from one's hand.</p>
<p>As they breed very readily in England, I was
soon presented with a little family of five very
tiny, pinkish-coloured infants, quite blind, and
destitute of hair. They were not attractive, and
so were left to their mother's care till they could
see and were properly clothed, and then they were
extremely pretty, and rapidly developed all the
habits and manners of their parents, gnawing wood,
nibbling nuts, and having merry games of their
own, darting with wonderful quickness in and out
of the tree-roots, and getting up small battles for
some coveted morsel of diet. The first pair were
quiet enough, and agreed happily together, but
when, later on, mother and daughter happened to
have a little brood at the same time, things became
complicated, and it was no uncommon sight tosee
the two mothers careering about, each with an<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></SPAN></span>
infant in its mouth, and it often fell to my lot to
take care of the unfortunate children and replace
them in the nest whilst the mothers had a "stand-up"
fight, and this is a literally true expression,
for gerbilles sit bolt upright and fight each other
with their front feet; but, though they appear to
be in desperate conflict, I must say I never saw
that any damage was done. As to their gnawing
power, it is almost beyond description. I gave
them a strong wooden box as a nursery for the
young gerbilles, but before long they had eaten
out the back and sides, and a mere skeleton of a
box remained. There was a piece of zinc, which
formed a partition, but they ate a hole right through
the zinc in no time, and when a wire cage, with a
sliding door, was placed in the plant case, they soon
learnt how to lift up the door and get out. We
often watched the formation of the family nest,
which was constructed of wool and hay nibbled
very small, and carried by mouthfuls and woven
together. It generally had two outlets for ingress
and egress. There the entire family would sleep
during the day amicably enough, but towards
evening the nursery disputes would begin, and old<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></SPAN></span>
animosities led to frequent battles and scrimmages,
because somebody wanted some one else's pieces of
wool for the precious infants. Still they were
very tame, amusing little creatures, liking to be
stroked and fed and rewarded by a run upon the
breakfast-table, where they would examine every
dish and plate in a delicate, inquiring way, not
touching the contents—only trying to add to their
small amount of knowledge of the outside world.
Their food consisted of bran, oats, pea-nuts, wheat,
fresh dandelion and clover-leaves, and on these they
lived in perfect health and beauty.</p>
<p>As the colony increased, it was needful to make
several homes for the gerbilles, and the original
pair happened to be, for a time, in a cage upstairs
on a landing. One of these found its way out
of the cage, down the stairs, across the hall, and
was discovered next morning in a room where the
younger members of the family were kept. This
would go to prove a keen scent, which, I suppose,
guided the little animal to find its friends, and
also confirms what travellers have written about
gerbilles living in large colonies and always keeping
together.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>One evening I had to read some natural history
papers at a Band of Mercy meeting in a neighbouring
village, where the clergyman's wife took great
interest in promoting kindness to animals, and as
I proposed speaking about the gerbilles, I thought
I would take some of them with me to show the
children. Accordingly a mother and four little
ones, were put into a cage with some food and
bedding for their comfort whilst being exhibited.
I was concerned to see the extreme terror they
seemed to feel at the unusual motion of the carriage,
and in a few minutes one became convulsed
and literally died of fright. I held the cage in
my lap, and talked to the others to reassure them,
fearing more casualties, but after a while they
settled down, and we reached the schoolroom in
due time. I was scarcely prepared for the tremendous
sensation the gerbilles created. Remarks
in broad Hertfordshire greeted their appearance.
"Whoy, here's a lot of moise." "Noa, they ain't;
they's rats!" "Will they boite?" and then such a
cluster of children came round me they had to be
called to order, and the cage was carried round
that all might see the little foreigners, and through<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></SPAN></span>
all the after-proceedings many pairs of eyes remained
fixed upon the cage and its inmates. I
fancy that evening will long be remembered by
the children.</p>
<p>The great difficulty that attends the keeping
of these little animals is their rapid rate of increase.
It is true they can all be kept together,
for, as I have said, though there are squabbles they
do not result in any personal injury, and thus my
colony was allowed to go on till there was no
counting the number of generations that existed.
I very much wished to reduce the numbers, and
give some away, but could never tell which were
the mothers of the small pink infants I was being
presented with continually. I tried putting a little
family of the babies into a cage in the plant case,
hoping the mother who belonged to them would
then appear and take care of them; but no, the
entire colony trooped in and ran riot in the new
place, and if a young gerbille was by chance left
uncovered in the <i>melée</i>, a twentieth cousin would
take it up tenderly as if it was its own mother, and
replace it in the nest—a very emblem of brotherly
kindness and charity. The colony had finally to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></SPAN></span>
be dispersed and given away in small detachments
to different friends, and, strange to say, in no other
case did the numbers increase, I imagine because
the requisite conditions of space and quietness
were not realized as in the pleasant home I was
able to provide for them.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-031" id="illus-031"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p120.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="317" height-obs="247" /><br/></div>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></SPAN></span></p>
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<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="WATER_SHREWS." id="WATER_SHREWS."></SPAN>
<h2>WATER SHREWS.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
EARING that the little patients in a
London hospital had scarcely any toys,
and that they especially desired a very
large doll, I had one dressed for them,
and various other interesting items, such
as an album of pictures, bags of shells, a stamp
snake, &c., were prepared; but a large box was
needed in which to pack all these treasures; and
one which had been for months in the wine-cellar
was brought up for that purpose into the hall.</p>
</div>
<p>It was filled with straw, and as I was watching
this being taken out I noticed some small black
animals darting about in it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"They must be young rats," I exclaimed, "and
the rare kind, too—the black rat, which has been
almost entirely eradicated by the stronger brown
species." A curious instance, by the way, of a
foreign interloper driving out the native.</p>
<p>I immediately resolved to secure these animals,
whatever they might prove to be, and, armed with
leather gloves, and an empty glass globe to place
my captures in, I began to search in the straw,
and soon secured the supposed rats, but they
proved to be a pair of water shrews—jet black,
lively little creatures, with sharply-pointed snouts
and teeth, as I soon discovered to my cost. I had
taken off my gloves and was watching the activity
of the shrews, when suddenly they flew upon each
other, biting and screaming with rage, and, thinking
they would kill each other at that rate, I tried to
separate them, but one turned and bit me pretty
severely, and it was with some difficulty they were
parted. One I put into a zinc fern case, and the
other into a large empty aquarium, with shingle at
the bottom, moss and wool for bedding, and a
large pan of water for swimming and bathing.</p>
<p>They were rather larger than the common mouse,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></SPAN></span>
jet black above, and greyish-white beneath—restless,
active creatures, usually found near ponds and
ditches; and how ever these two had found their
way into a dry cellar, and lived in a box of straw
will always remain a mystery. I learnt from books
that they fed on worms and insects, and that diet
was provided, though much to my distress, for it is
a miserable thing to see any living creature tortured
and devoured alive, even though it may be in
obedience to natural instincts. Happily I soon
found a substitute. I was showing one of the
shrews to a fellow-student of natural history, and
with a long feather soon attracted the little animal's
attention; he always came out of his bed and
sprang upon the feather like a little tiger, dragging
it about and holding on with the grip of a bull-dog,
so that one could lift him off the ground and keep
him swinging a minute in the air to see the pretty
white fur underneath. My friend suggested that it
probably fed on small birds and thought the feather
was part of its daily fare.</p>
<p>I obtained a fowl's head from the larder, and
then it was a sight to see how it was pounced
upon and dragged about until securely hidden<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></SPAN></span>
under the moss, when we could hear our little
friend crunching the bones and tearing it to pieces
as if he had not had anything so good for a long
while.</p>
<p>One shrew died in a few days, but the other
lived three weeks in perfect health, and I believe
it was an accidental failure of sufficient food that
led to the death of the second; their appetite
seems to be, like that of the mole, most voracious,
and unless they obtain a constant and ample supply
of food they quickly die of hunger.</p>
<p>They are worth studying for a few days, but
their dreadful odour and fierce character make
them anything but pets. I suppose there is hardly
any animal in England so fierce and combative,
and probably that may account for the fact that
one so often comes across a dead shrew lying on
the path in summer.</p>
<p>When swimming, the shrew's furry coat perfectly
resisted the entrance of moisture; it always came
out absolutely dry. The said coat was most carefully
kept in order; a daily brushing and cleansing
went on, the little tongue was often at work licking
off every little speck of dust; the toes were spread<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></SPAN></span>
out and examined; the small amount of tail kept
in order. I could but think how many a lesson
we may learn from the small as well as the great
creations of God's hand—habits such as this little
animal possessed might, in the way of cleanliness,
lead to the prevention of endless diseases, if imitated
by those who never dream of daily cleansings
as being necessary to health and life.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-033" id="illus-033"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p125.png" alt="WATER SHREW" title="WATER SHREW" width-obs="298" height-obs="196" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-034" id="illus-034"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p126.png" alt="SQUIRREL" title="SQUIRREL" width-obs="318" height-obs="154" /><br/> <span class="caption">SQUIRREL.</span></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="SQUIRRELS." id="SQUIRRELS."></SPAN>
<h2>SQUIRRELS.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
F one lives in the country where these
graceful little animals exist, it is well
worth while to attract them near the
house so that one may enjoy the sight
their gambols and minister to their
wants by suitable diet. As I have already said,
for many years food was placed in a basket outside
the dining-room window to attract the charming
little titmice, and four species might be seen
feasting on fat of different kinds. I placed
Barcelona nuts for the nuthatches, and they
came and shared the contents of the basket with<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></SPAN></span>
the tits. The nuts also drew a squirrel to the spot,
and after about a year, the little fellow became
so used to seeing us moving in the room that
he would sit in the basket with his graceful little
tail curved over his back, cracking his nuts, and
nibbling away quite at ease. Then the window
was opened and the nuts put on a table inside
the room, and there little "Frolic" sits whilst
we are at meals and forms one of the family,
holding his nuts cleverly in his paws, whilst
his sharp teeth bite a hole in them, and, regardless
of tidiness, he flings the shells about as he
nibbles at the kernels, looking at us with his
black, beady eyes, perhaps speculating upon what
our breakfast may be. How much more enjoyable
is this sort of pet than a poor caged squirrel
whirling round in his wheel, condemned to a
dreary life, with no freedom or change, no intercourse
with his kind.</p>
</div>
<p>In town there is, perhaps, no way to keep a
squirrel but in a cage; even so, by an occasional
release from its captivity, a constant variety in
its food, and its being talked to and noticed, its
life may be made less irksome, and, if young, it<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></SPAN></span>
may eventually be made quite tame, and become
an interesting daily companion.</p>
<p>We derived great amusement from our squirrel
visitors; one after another they would leap up
the side of the window and spring in and out
of the basket in quick succession, carrying away
a nut at each visit, playing and skirmishing with
each other in lively fashion. I am sorry to
confess there was great jealousy amongst them.
A second squirrel took to coming into the room,
and Frolic and he had a pitched battle, in which
our favourite, poor little fellow! lost half his ear,
and a sponge and water were needed to efface
the sanguinary stains left by the fight.</p>
<p>The squirrel's great enemy is the cat. One would
not think she could catch the agile little creature;
but one day we saw a cat watching an unconscious
little squirrel under the tulip-tree: we did not
dream that she could harm it, but in a moment
she made one swift rush at her prey. The squirrel
ran at full speed, but alas! before we could interfere
it was caught and carried away.</p>
<p>At Dropmore, the gardener told us he had a
cat that kept the Pinetum quite clear of squirrels.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></SPAN></span>
They certainly nibble the young shoots of firs and
horse-chestnuts unmercifully in the spring, and
one very dry summer they took very kindly to
our peaches and nectarines; but I freely forgive
their little sins, and should be sorry to miss
them from the lawn where there are often four
or five to be seen at once.</p>
<p>They chase each other round a tree-stem with
wonderful agility, and express their animosity
with angry grunts and a stamp of the foot like
a rabbit. In autumn I have acorns and beech-mast
collected, and store some bushels of each
to be doled out through the winter and spring;
strewn under the tulip-tree this food, mixed
with corn, attracts an amusing variety of live
creatures. Besides the squirrels which are
constantly there, we see jays, wood-pigeons,
jackdaws, rooks, and flocks of the smaller birds;
if snow should prevail, a whole rookery will
come to see what is to be had. By constantly
watching their movements I have learnt that the
squirrel's tail has quite a language of its own.
It can be curved over its back and so spread
out that on a wet day it forms a complete<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></SPAN></span>
shelter from rain. It will take the form of a
note of interrogation or lie flat on the ground,
stand out at an angle or bristle with anger,
according to the mood of the possessor.</p>
<p>I did not find the American chipmunks, before
alluded to, at all tameable. They were very handsome,
of grey colour with dark brown stripes on
their sides.</p>
<p>They were extremely wild, and would spring
round their cage in perfect terror when looked
at, so, finding they could not be made happy in
confinement, I let them loose in the garden in
the hope they might burrow under a large rhododendron
clump, but after a day or two they disappeared,
and I suppose they made their escape
to a neighbouring wood, so that I have little hope
of ever seeing them again.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-035" id="illus-035"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p130.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="307" height-obs="86" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-036" id="illus-036"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p131.png" alt="MOLE" title="MOLE" width-obs="287" height-obs="212" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="A_MOLE." id="A_MOLE."></SPAN>
<h2>A MOLE.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
LIVE mole above-ground is a somewhat
rare sight, for, as a rule, his
habits are altogether subterranean;
but now and then he may be
captured by a sudden grasp as he
scrambles along in his odd, unwieldly fashion,
and a curious fellow he is in many ways.</p>
</div>
<p>Strolling quietly along a country lane one
summer's evening, I heard a great rustling in
a dry ditch, the dead leaves were being scattered
right and left, and I stopped to see what could
be the cause. In a minute the black velvet coat<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></SPAN></span>
of a mole appeared, and I at once resolved to
endeavour to catch it, though with little hope
of success, for the creature is apt to dive into
the ground in an instant when alarmed. However,
watching my opportunity, I managed to seize and
hold him firmly; but I had nothing to put him
in, and he struggled furiously to escape. All I
could do was to roll him up in one end of my
black lace shawl and hurry home with my
capture. Alas! for the unlucky shawl—the mole
soon began rending and tearing it into shreds
with his powerful feet and teeth. I was rapidly
becoming acquainted with the habits of moles,
and in a way that I should not soon forget; still,
that mole must be brought home somehow, and
I next transferred him to my dress pocket, which
I held fast, whilst he scrambled and pushed his
strong little snout in all directions to find some
way of escape. He was soon placed in a zinc
fern case, with glass sides, supplied with earth to
burrow in, and fed with worms. I also gave
him a pan of water, as I remembered seeing a plan
of a mole's burrow which always includes a place
for water. It was a really painful sight to watch<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></SPAN></span>
the creature feeding; he pounced upon a worm
with the fury of a tiger, and holding it in his
mouth, tore it to pieces with his sharp claws
and rapidly devoured all the pieces, and snuffing
about to make sure he had quite finished it, he
then darted off to seek another. The mole has
a most voracious appetite and dies very quickly
if unable to obtain food. I was interested to
watch the bustling, active life of the little
creature; his morning toilet when the black
velvet coat was attended to, carefully brushed
and licked by a tiny red tongue (though it
never seemed to pick up dirt or defilement in
its passage through the earth) and finally, after
a few days, I had the pleasure of setting him
free, when he dived into the ground out of
sight in a moment.</p>
<p>Some years later a live mole was much desired
by a young relative who was giving Natural
History lectures to some school children. It
happened that a mole had found its way into
the conservatory and was doing much damage
there by making its runs close to the surface
and uprooting the plants in its course. The<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></SPAN></span>
gardener and I resolved to catch it; he was
anxious to prevent further mischief to his plants,
and I was wishing to help the lecturer by sending
a lively specimen to illustrate his subject.
The exciting part of the business was the
necessity of making the capture before eleven
o'clock, when the carrier would pass by, and,
taking charge of the animal, would deliver it in
time for the lecture next day. We watched for
the upheaving of the mole's run which came at
last. The gardener made a quick plunge with
his hand into the soft earth, but alas! the mole
escaped. He kept quiet for ten minutes, then
another attempt was made, and failed. The
carrier's bell sounded and he passed by. I still
kept watch, and again saw the earth move—the
third time was successful. I had gone to find
a tin box, and on my return I was greeted with
"Here's the mole, ma'am!" Poor fellow! he was
being ignominiously held up by the scruff of his
neck, and kicking furiously at the indignity. He
was soon packed up in soft grass, with a plentiful
supply of worms to feast upon by the way.
A special messenger overtook the carrier, and a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></SPAN></span>
telegram was sent to announce the dispatch of
the precious animal.</p>
<p>He first reached a London office, where I fear
he tended to hinder business, as it was needful
to transfer him to a cage, and no one seemed
particularly anxious for the honour of catching
him, as his teeth were known to be both sharp and
numerous, and his disposition not of the meekest.
However, he was placed in his cage, travelled
down into Kent, and gave wonderful pleasure
when exhibited to the children.</p>
<p>One would naturally suppose that in a country
village where boys and girls are daily going to and
from school, they would all have been familiar
with this little creature, but when the question
was asked if they had ever seen a dead mole,
only fifteen children out of ninety had seen one,
and only three had ever seen a live one.</p>
<p>Next day the mole was let loose upon a
very hard piece of ground, but even there he
very quickly burrowed out of sight.</p>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-037" id="illus-037"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p136.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="305" height-obs="154" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="HARVEST_MICE." id="HARVEST_MICE."></SPAN>
<h2>HARVEST MICE.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
HAD often wished to keep these interesting
little animals, but as they are
only found in some parts of England
and are difficult to capture from their
minute size and delicacy, I had to wait
many years before they could be obtained. At
length, through the kindness of a friend, six were
sent to me from Norfolk, and for two years they
lived in captivity and afforded me much pleasure.</p>
</div>
<p>They are the smallest English rodents, two of
them only weighing a halfpenny; they are brown
in colour with white underneath, very long<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></SPAN></span>
whiskers and prehensile tails. They were made
happy by finding all things needful for their
comfort in a large plant case. A thick layer of
cocoa fibre was spread over the bottom of the
case, dry moss and hay provided, wheat-ears, oats,
and canary seed, and a small cup of water. A
flowerpot in which a number of small branches
were fixed afforded opportunity for exercise in
climbing, and a pleasant resting-place was formed
by a half-cocoanut filled with cotton-wool and
roofed over with dry moss, then slung by three
wires in a tripod of sticks of corky-barked elm,
a little hole for entrance being left at one side.
Into this the mice went the moment they were
turned into the case, and in it they mostly lived.
I fancy its swinging a little as they moved inside
was congenial to their ideas of comfort. As they
live in cornfields and make a pendulous nest
attached to an ear of corn, I supplied them with
a pot of growing wheat, in the hope that they
would incline to make a nest in it; but I could
never induce them to rear a family. They would
sit for hours in the corn-stalks and nibble them
into a heap of shreds, but no nest ever appeared.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></SPAN></span>
Their greatest delight was a handful of fresh
moss full of little insects on which they would
feed. The greatest excitement was always shown
when the moss appeared—little heads would peep
out of the cocoa-husk, little noses sniffed in all
directions, and then, with jerky runs, the tiny folk
made their way to the attractive spot, and soon
each would be seen sitting up like a small
kangaroo feasting on a beetle or spider held in
the tiny paws. Sometimes in their great happiness
they made a low, sweet chirping like a company
of wrens conversing cheerily together. When
climbing in their tree-branches it was interesting
to see how the fine wiry tail was always coiled
round the stem as the creature descended, so as
to keep it from falling and injuring itself.</p>
<p>Canary seed and brown bread seemed a
favourite diet, and if I put a trough of growing
corn into the case the mice made little burrows
through it so as to be able to eat the wheat from
below. I had heard a sad report that my fairy-like
pets had a tendency to eat each other as
spring came round! This I fancied might arise
from lack of animal food, so once or twice a week<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></SPAN></span>
I always gave them a small portion of meat and
this seemed to prevent any tendency to cannibalism.</p>
<p>After keeping them two years several deaths
occurred, so I thought the remainder should have
their liberty, and I had the pleasure of seeing
them enter one of my corn-stacks where I hope
they found all that their little hearts could desire,
and possibly they would stray to a neighbouring
bank and found a colony.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-038" id="illus-038"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p139.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="302" height-obs="206" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-039" id="illus-039"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p140.png" alt="MICE" title="MICE" width-obs="287" height-obs="121" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="THE_CALIFORNIAN_MOUSE." id="THE_CALIFORNIAN_MOUSE."></SPAN>
<h2>THE CALIFORNIAN MOUSE.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
RATHER strange parcel from California
reached me by post some years
ago. It was marked "Live animals
with care," and consisted of a box, containing
several divisions, each having
fine wire-work to admit air. In one I found a
spiny creature called a Gecko, in another a beautiful
lizard which had not survived the journey, and
in the third a very rare species of mouse known as
<i>Perognathus Pencillatus</i>. It has a soft silky coat
of silver grey and fawn colour, and a long tail
with a little tuft at the end, very large black eyes<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></SPAN></span>
and white paws. It was alive, but weak and tired
with its journey of ten days and all the jars and
shocks it must have had by the way. I gave it
warm milk and soaked bread, which it seemed to
enjoy, and some hours later it was supplied with
wheat grains, the food upon which it lives in its
native country.</p>
</div>
<p>True to his natural instinct, mousie soon began
to fill both his cheek pouches with the corn, and
tried to hide it away as a supply for the future.
In a few days the little creature was in perfect
health, and he has been a great pet now for several
years; perfectly tame and gentle, he will run about
on the table and amuse himself happily wherever
he is placed.</p>
<p>Being entirely inodorous he is kept in the
drawing-room in a mahogany cage which was
made specially to meet his small requirements.
He is a busy little creature at night, as he likes
daily to make a fresh bed of cotton-wool, and
fusses about with his mouth full of material until
he has arranged his little couch.</p>
<p>In his own country, where the cold is very
severe in winter, its habit is to become perfectly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></SPAN></span>
unconscious, exactly as if dead, and in that state
it can endure the rigour of the climate and wake
up when the temperature rises. It was once left
in a cold room and became in this apparently
lifeless state. I was not alarmed, as I knew of its
peculiarity, but it really was difficult to believe it
ever could revive; there was no trace of warmth,
or any apparent beating of the heart, and so it
lay for some days, but on bringing it into a warm
room it became as bright and active as ever. It
seems a more intense form of hibernation than that
of our squirrel and dormouse.</p>
<p>The naturalist at San Bernardino, from whom
I obtained this mouse, told me he had kept one
as a pet for many years, and his specimen lived
entirely without water; as there was sufficient
moisture in the wheat grains on which it fed to
supply its need; but I think it is cruel to keep
anything without the means of quenching thirst
which might arise from an artificial mode of life,
so my little pet has always a small jar of water
to which I know it resorts from its requiring to
be refilled from time to time.</p>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-040" id="illus-040"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p143.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="325" height-obs="159" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="SANCHO_THE_TOAD." id="SANCHO_THE_TOAD."></SPAN>
<h2>SANCHO THE TOAD.</h2></div>
<div class="wrap_area">
<ANTIMG src="images/illus-a-p143.png" alt="A" title="A" width-obs="71" height-obs="104">
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<p class='ornate'>
BOUT four years ago I began to feed
a toad that had found its way into
the conservatory. He sat daily in
one place expecting his meal-worms,
and when he had snapped them up
with his curious sticky tongue he would retire
to some hidden nook and be invisible until the
next day. Each winter he has hibernated as
soon as cold weather began, and reappeared with
the spring sunshine. Sancho is now a very portly,
and most amusing pet.</p>
</div>
<p>Few people would guess how much character<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></SPAN></span>
can be shown by even this poor, despised reptile
when treated with real kindness, regularly fed,
and never frightened or abused. I will describe
what happens when Sancho is "shown to the
public."</p>
<p>Some meal-worms are thrown on the pavement
near him. He sits for a time gazing at them
with his gold-rimmed eyes; then slowly creeps
towards them, fixes his eyes on one of the worms
bends his head a little towards it, then one hears
a snap and the prey is taken. The act is so
rapid that one can never see the tongue that
has picked up the meal-worm—simply it is gone!
The toad's eyes are tightly shut whilst he swallows
the morsel, and then he turns to pick up a second.
Now is the time to approach him from behind
and begin to stroke his leathery, warty skin. In
a few seconds he is in a state of perfect ecstasy,
his front legs are stretched out, he leans first to
one side, then to the other, to guide the hand
where he wishes to be stroked, and at last uplifts
his ponderous body until he is an inch or more
from the ground, supported on the tips of his
toes. No description can do justice to the absurdity<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></SPAN></span>
of the attitude, and the rapture seems so
intense that food is forgotten, and so long as
Sancho can get any one to stroke him, he is quite
oblivious to all around him, although at other
times he will hop away as soon as any stranger
approaches.</p>
<p>Sancho will not, as yet, take anything from my
hand, but I hope to bring him to that state of
tameness in course of time.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-041" id="illus-041"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p145.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="299" height-obs="188" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-042" id="illus-042"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p146.png" alt="ROMAN SNAILS" title="ROMAN SNAILS" width-obs="309" height-obs="172" /><br/> <span class="caption">ROMAN SNAILS.</span></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="ROMAN_SNAILS." id="ROMAN_SNAILS."></SPAN>
<h2>ROMAN SNAILS.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
OW <i>can</i> you take an interest in snails
and slugs?—horrid, slimy, crawling
things!" More than once have I
heard this kind of remark from youthful
lips when I produced my grand old
Roman snails and gave them a pleasant time for
exercise upon the dewy lawn. Now in my secret
mind I think a snail is a wonderfully curious
creature, neither ugly nor "horrid"—it <i>is</i> slimy,
but about that I shall have something to say
later on.</p>
</div>
<p>When staying at Box Hill, near Dorking, I often<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></SPAN></span>
saw the great apple snail, <i>Helix Pomatia</i>, which
is only found on chalk soils, and is supposed to
have been introduced by the Romans, from the
quantities of their empty shells found with Roman
remains in all parts of England. They were
kept and fattened in places called "Cochlearia"
and made into various "dainty dishes" which the
Romans thought quite fit to set before their kings.
It is certain that they are very nutritious creatures,
and that in times of famine people have supported
life and kept themselves mysteriously "fat and
well-liking" by resorting to snails and slugs as
articles of diet. Indeed I have heard more than
once that the famous "Pâte de Guimauve" owes
its healing nutritive character to this despised
univalve, which is said to enter largely into its
composition. I brought several apple snails home
with me from Box Hill and kept them for many
years, until I really believe the creatures, in a dim
sort of way, recognized me as their friend, or at
any rate their feeder. I cannot boast, as I believe
an American lady is said to have done, that "her
tame oysters followed her up and down stairs,"
but certainly my snails would, when placed upon<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></SPAN></span>
the lawn, very frequently crawl towards me, and
would do so again and again when removed to
a distance. As the weather became cold they
always hibernated, closing the mouth of the shell
with a thin, firm covering, or operculum, of chalk,
which, mixed with their slime, made a substance
like plaster of Paris. Thus enclosed they would
lie as if dead until the warmth of the following
spring made them push the door open and come
out, with excellent appetites, ready to eat
voraciously to make up for their long fast.
These Roman snails were quite five inches long
when fully extended, and therefore were much
larger than our English species; the body was
cream colour and the shell a pale tint of buff
varying somewhat in different specimens.</p>
<p>These creatures were kept in a fern case with
glass top and sides, and it was singular to observe
the way in which they could suspend themselves
(as shown in the drawing) from the top of the
box.</p>
<p>The substance which exists in the caterpillar
of the silkworm moth, and which can be drawn
out into fine shreds of silk, is very similar to the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></SPAN></span>
slime of the snail, only in the latter it is not
filiform, but exudes as a liquid and then hardens
into a thin layer of silk which is strong enough
to support the weight of two of these snails, for,
seeing them one day thus suspended, I put them
in the scales and ascertained that the weight of the
two amounted to 2 ½ ounces.</p>
<p>This mucus forms the glistening, shiny track
which the snail leaves behind it, enabling it
to glide easily and painlessly over rough substances
which would otherwise lacerate its soft
body.</p>
<p>One hardly expected to find social feeling and
affection in animals so low down in the scale of
nature, but I do not know what else could have led
my "Romans" to caress each other with their long
horns by the hour together and always keep close
to one another, twisting and curling their yielding
bodies round each other in the most odd contortions.
Our English snails hibernate in whole colonies
for the winter, which also points to their
affectionate and gregarious habits.</p>
<p>In lifting up some moss I once came upon some
yellow, half-transparent eggs about as large as<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></SPAN></span>
pearl barley, and wishing to know what they
would prove to be I kept them in damp moss
under a tumbler for about a fortnight, when, to my
dismay, I found a grand colony of yellow slugs!
and not a little was I teased about these interesting
young people. I am afraid I must own
they were given as a <i>bonne bouche</i> to my
Virginian nightingale, who seemed highly to
approve of this addition to his daily fare. Snails'
eggs are nearly white and semi-transparent; the
empty shells of young snails are very lovely
when placed in a good microscope: the polariscope
bringing out their exquisite prismatic tints.</p>
<p>The gardener one day brought in a testacella, or
shelled slug. It fed upon earth-worms and was
quite unlike the ordinary black or grey slug, of
which we have, alas! countless thousands preying
upon all the green things of the earth. This
shelled slug was yellow, and seemed able to
elongate its body very differently to any other
species. The shell was quite small, a simple
dome-shaped plate upon the anterior part of the
body. I kept it for some weeks on damp moss
under a tumbler, but it was often able to escape<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></SPAN></span>
by flattening itself to a mere thread and then
crawling under the rim of the tumbler, and at last
I gave it liberty as a reward for its persevering
efforts to obtain its freedom.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-043" id="illus-043"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p151.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="306" height-obs="249" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-044" id="illus-044"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p152.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="297" height-obs="180" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="AN_EARWIG_MOTHER." id="AN_EARWIG_MOTHER."></SPAN>
<h2>AN EARWIG MOTHER.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
had often read of the earwig as an
incubating insect, and much wished to
see for myself how she carried out her
motherly instincts. One bright May
morning found me busily turning over
stones, clinkers, and old tree-roots in a fernery,
which, having been long undisturbed, seemed a
likely spot for the nest I wished to find. There
seemed no scarcity of worms, wood-lice, centipedes,
or beetles, but no earwigs could I see; and
I was just about to give up the search when, lifting
a piece of stone, I saw a small cavity, about as
large as would contain a pea, and in it lay about<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></SPAN></span>
twenty-six round, white eggs, hard-shelled and
shining, of the size of a small pin's head. An
earwig had placed herself over the eggs, and I
was delighted to think at last I had lighted upon
the insect mother I had been searching for. But
what was to be done with her<ins class="transcriber"
title="Transcriber's note: extra '.' removed">?</ins> How could I
watch the process of incubation? The difficulty
was solved by lifting the nest and its mother with
a trowel and placing it in a saucer under a
tumbler, without any displacement of the eggs;
thus the mother's care could be conveniently
watched. The earwig first carefully examined
her new home, touching each morsel of earth and
stone with her antennæ; and, having ascertained
the exact condition of things, she set to work to
make a fresh nest, labouring with great industry
until it was formed to her mind. She then took
up the eggs, one by one, with her mandibles, and
placed them in the new nest, arranging and rearranging
them, until at last she seemed content,
and remained either upon or near them for the
rest of the day, quite motionless.</p>
</div>
<p>Every night, and sometimes two or three time
in the day, she would form fresh places in thes<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></SPAN></span>
earth, and replace the eggs. To prevent the soil
becoming too dry, I used to sprinkle a little
water upon it—a drop here and there—and if by
accident the water fell too near the eggs, the
earwig became much excited, hurrying to and fro
with her eggs, until they were all removed to a
drier spot. On the other hand, if I omitted the
water until the earth became dry, she would
choose the dampest spot that remained in which
to form her nest, and seemed to welcome the
water-drops, drinking herself from them, and
feeling the damp earth with her antennæ. She
remained thus for three weeks, feeding on little
pieces of beef or mutton, or an occasional fly;
I did not then know that earwigs are mostly
vegetable feeders, but it is clear they can eat other
food when needful. The first time I dropped a
newly-killed house-fly near her she looked at it
intently, felt it with her antennæ, and then suddenly
wheeled round and pinched it with her
forceps, and being apparently satisfied that it
could do no harm to her eggs, she began to devour
it, and after an hour or two but little remained
except the wings.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>As it was early in the year, but few insects could
be seen, but by searching in the conservatory I found
a large green aphis, which I gave to the earwig.
To my surprise, instead of devouring it at once,
she applied herself to one of the projecting tubes
of the aphis, and evidently sucked its sweet
secretion, and enjoyed it as much and in the same
way as ants are said to do. She feasted thus for
four or five minutes, but I am sorry to add that,
unlike the humane ants, who care tenderly for
their aphides and preserve their lives by kind
treatment, the earwig ended by munching up the
unfortunate aphis, till not a trace of it was left.</p>
<p>At the end of three weeks I found one morning
all the eggs were hatched, and tiny, snow-white
earwigs, with forceps and antennæ fully developed,
were creeping about and around their mother. I
placed a slice of pear in the saucer, upon which
the little ones swarmed, and seemed to find it
congenial food. In a few days they increased to
nearly double their size when first hatched, and
turned a light brown colour. Having ascertained
all I wished to know about the maternal instincts
of the earwig, I released the mother and her<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></SPAN></span>
family, and no doubt she was happy enough to
return to her old haunt in the fernery, and would
greatly prefer tree-roots and stones to my tumbler-and-saucer
arrangement.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-045" id="illus-045"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p156.png" alt="EARWIG" title="EARWIG" width-obs="291" height-obs="124" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-046" id="illus-046"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p157.png" alt="EGYPTIAN BEETLES" title="EGYPTIAN BEETLES" width-obs="305" height-obs="140" /><br/> <span class="caption">EGYPTIAN BEETLES.</span></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="THE_SACRED_BEETLE." id="THE_SACRED_BEETLE."></SPAN>
<h2>THE SACRED BEETLE.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
N reading books on Egypt and the
voyage up the Nile, one is sure to
find some mention of the curious beetle
which is found along the banks of the
river, especially in Nubia, where the
shore is traceried with the footprints of the busy
little creature. Miss Edwards, in her very interesting
book, "A Thousand Miles up the Nile,"
thus speaks of it: "Every one knows how this
scarab was adopted by the Egyptians as an
emblem of creative power and the immortality
of the soul; it is to be seen in the wall-sculptures,
on the tombs, cut out in precious stones and worn
as an ornament, buried in the mummy-cases, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></SPAN></span>
a figure of the beetle forms a hieroglyph, and
represents a word signifying 'To be and to transform.'
If actual worship was not paid to <i>Scarabœus
Sacer</i>,<SPAN name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</SPAN> it was, at any rate, regarded with the
greatest reverence and a vast amount of symbolism
drawn from its various characteristics."</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote"><p class="footnote"><SPAN name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></SPAN>
<SPAN href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></SPAN> Or <i>Ateuchus Sacer</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>I had often wished to see this insect alive, and
one day my wish was very unexpectedly gratified
by the arrival of a small tin box in which I found
a specimen of the sacred beetle swathed in wet
linen like a veritable mummy, only, instead of
being an Egyptian specimen, this had come from
a kind friend at the Riviera, who knew that the
same species existed there, and had sent me this
one by post. The scarab was at once named
"Cheops," and treated with all the respect due
to his ancient family traditions.</p>
<p>His wants were easily supplied: a deep tin
box, with earth and moss slightly damped, gave
him space for exercise; and then for food—alas!
that his tastes should be so degraded—he had to
be supplied with cow-dung! This could be done
in secret, and judiciously hidden by fair, green</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>moss; but when exhibiting my cherished pet to
admiring friends the first question was sure to
be, "What does he feed upon?" and one had
to take refuge in vague generalities about organic
substances, &c., which might mean anything, and
then, by diverting attention to some point of
interest apart from the food question, the difficulty
was generally overcome.</p>
<p>I kept a close watch to see if the beetle would
be led by instinct to form its round pellets of
mud as is its custom on the banks of the Nile,
and having placed its egg in the centre, it begins
to roll it from the margin of the river until it is
above high-water mark. There it digs a hole
and buries the pellet, leaving the sun to hatch
the eggs in due time. Travellers who have
watched the process describe the untiring way
in which both the male and female beetle roll
these pellets, often falling down with their burden
into holes and ridges in the rough ground; but
then their comrades will give them help, and,
picking up the ball, they patiently labour on.
Walking backwards, having the pellet between
their broad hind legs, they push it up and up<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></SPAN></span>
until it is placed in safety. The persevering
energy of this insect led the Egyptians to adopt
it as an emblem of the labours of their great
deity, Osiris, or the sun; they also traced a resemblance
in the spiny projections on its head
to the rays of the sun.</p>
<p>Great was my delight to find at length that
Cheops—even in captivity—was true to his native
instincts, that he had formed a pellet about the
size of a marble and was gravely rolling it with
his hind legs backwards and forwards in his box.
Poor captive! he was evidently puzzled what to
do with the precious thing. He had no Nile
bank to surmount, and the sun was hardly warm
enough to encourage any hope for his future
family; but he did the only thing that was
possible—he set to work to scoop out a hole of
sufficient size, then rolled the pellet in and
covered it over with loose earth. Three such
pellets were made at intervals of a few days;
one of them I unearthed and kept as a curio.
The beetle never seemed to miss it, and having
done his duty under difficult circumstances, his
mind seemed to be at rest.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>I often placed Cheops in my hand to show him
to visitors, and there he would lie feigning to be
dead until he was gently stroked over the elytra,
when he would stretch out his antennæ, then his
legs by slow degrees appeared (for he tucked them
close to his body out of sight when frightened),
and at last he would begin to walk in a jerky
manner, as if moved by machinery, often stopping
to look and listen to be sure that it was
safe to move, and even if busily at work in the
earth, if he saw any one coming near he would
stop, draw in his antennæ and limbs and remain
motionless.</p>
<p>He had a strong and peculiar odour at times,
which became more apparent if he was annoyed.
He was infested with a small mite, and though
these were frequently cleared away with water and
a camel's-hair brush, they always reappeared in a
day or two, clustering under the thorax between the
first pair of legs, and at times they might be seen
racing over his body with great rapidity. Once
Cheops nearly escaped, for I had placed his box
in the sun, and the warmth so excited and waked
him up that he opened his wing-cases, used his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></SPAN></span>
gauze-like inner wings, and with a mighty hum
was all but gone in search of his native land,
but fortunately I was near enough to intercept
his flight and place him in safe quarters. After
keeping this curious creature in perfect health
for sixteen months, I was much vexed to find
him one morning lying in a shallow pan of water
in his box, quite dead. He had overbalanced
on to his back, and, being unable to turn over,
had been drowned, though the water was scarcely
half an inch deep. Poor Cheops is enshrined
in a pyramid-shaped box, in which he is often
shown and his life-history told to interested
visitors.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-047" id="illus-047"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p162.png" alt="FLYING BEETLE" title="FLYING BEETLE" width-obs="313" height-obs="111" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-048" id="illus-048"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p163.png" alt="TRAP-DOOR SPIDERS" title="TRAP-DOOR SPIDERS" width-obs="361" height-obs="197" /><br/> <span class="caption">TRAP-DOOR SPIDERS.</span></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="SPIDERS." id="SPIDERS."></SPAN>
<h2>SPIDERS.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
F all the varieties of "creeping things"
spiders seem to be the most universally
disliked. I knew well the kind
of expression I should see on the faces
of my friends when I produced the box
which contained my pet Tegenaria, a large black
spider, long-legged and very swift, a well-known
kind of house-spider.</p>
</div>
<p>Happily the box had a glass lid, so the inmate
could be seen in comfort; and when the spider's
history was told there was always an interest
created in even this poor despised creature.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>When first placed in its new home the Tegenaria
began spinning tunnels of white silky web
in various directions across the box. They were
almost as close in texture as fine gauze, and had
openings here and there, so that they formed a
kind of labyrinth.</p>
<p>The spider always lived in one corner, curled
up, watching for prey, and when a blue-bottle
was put in, and began buzzing, she then rushed
up one tunnel and down another until she could
pounce upon her prey.</p>
<p>The fly was quickly killed by her poison fangs,
and then carried to the corner to be consumed
at leisure. Unlike the habit of the garden or
diadem spider, no cobweb was rolled round the
victim; only the wings were cut off and the
body carried away. After some months I noticed
the corner seemed filled up with web and fragments
of insects, and when I examined it more
closely there appeared a large round ball of eggs,
over which the spider had spun some web, and
then had collected all the legs and wings of
her prey and stuck them carelessly here and
there in the web so as to conceal her nest, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></SPAN></span>
make it look like the remains of an old cobweb.
Over this nest she kept careful watch. One
could not drive her from it; she only left it for
a moment to spring upon a fly, and would
return with her food immediately and resume
her watchful life in the corner. At length the
young spiders were hatched in countless numbers;
they crept about the tunnels, and though so
minute as to be mere specks, they were perfect
in form, active in seeking for prey, and appeared
perfectly able to take care of themselves and
begin life on their own account.</p>
<p>I had kept the Tegenaria more than a year in
confinement, and having shown such admirable
motherly instincts, I thought she had earned the
reward of liberty. No doubt she welcomed "the
order of release"! At any rate, she scampered
away under some tree-roots, and possibly resides
there with her numerous family to this day.</p>
<p>Spiders hunt their prey in a variety of ways—some
by spinning their beautiful web, with which
we are all familiar; others, as the Zebra spiders,
catch flies by leaping suddenly upon them, and
these may often be seen on window-sills watching<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></SPAN></span>
some coveted insect, drawing slowly nearer to the
victim, till, by a well-directed spring, it can be
secured. There are nearly three hundred species
of spiders in this country, and nearly all spin and
weave their silken threads in some way, but each
in different fashions, according to their mode of
life. The female spider is the spinner, and her
supply is about 150 yards. When she has used
that amount a few days' rest will enable her to
secrete a similar quantity.</p>
<p>With great pains the spider's silk has been
obtained and woven into a delicate kind of
material; but as each spider only yields one
grain of silk, and 450 were required to produce
one yard, the process was found to be impracticable.
The insect possesses silk of two colours,
silver-grey and yellow; one is used for the
foundation-lines of the web, and the other for
the interlacing threads. The silk is drawn by
the spider from its four spinnerets, and issues
from them in a soft, viscid state, but it hardens
by exposure to the air. If a web is examined
with a magnifying-glass, it will be seen that its
threads are closely studded with minute globules<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></SPAN></span>
of gum, which is so sticky that flies caught in
the web are held in this kind of birdlime until
the spider is able to spring upon them.</p>
<p>Astronomers and microscopists make use of
the strongest lines of the spider's web to form
some of their delicate instruments. The thread is
drawn in parallel lines at right angles across the
field of the eye-piece at equal distances, so as to
make a multitude of fine divisions, scarcely visible
to the naked eye, and so thin as to be no obstacle
to the view of the object. One means of classifying
spiders is by the number of eyes they
possess. These are usually two, six, or eight in
number. The fangs with which the spider seizes
its prey are hollow, and emit a venomous fluid
into the body of the victim, which speedily benumbs
and kills it. In Palestine and other
countries a kind of spider is found which is
entirely nocturnal in its habits, and never either
hunts or feeds in daylight, but makes itself a
little home, where it abides safely till sunset. It
is called the trap-door spider, from the curious
way in which it protects the entrance to its nest.
It bores a hole in the dry earth of a bank a foot<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></SPAN></span>
or more in depth, lines the hole with silk, and
forms a lid, or trap-door, which secures the spider
from all intruders. I have one of these nests in
which the door is a wonderful piece of mechanism,
quite round and flat, about as large as a threepenny
piece, made of layers of fine earth moistened
and worked together with silk, so that it is tough
and elastic and cannot crumble. The hinge is
made of very tough silk, and is so springy that
when opened it closes directly with a snap. The
outside is disguised with bits of moss, glued on
so that no one can see where the door is. The
only way of opening it is with a pin, and even
then the spider will hold on inside with his claws,
so that it is not easy to overcome his resistance.
Amongst some insects sent to me from Los
Angelos is a huge "Mygale," a hairy monster
of very uninviting aspect. When its legs are
outspread it measures nearly six inches across,
and one can well believe the stories one hears of
its killing small birds if it finds them on their
nests. A gentleman living in Bermuda is said
to have tamed a spider of the species "Mygale,"
and made it live upon his bed-curtain and rid<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></SPAN></span>
him of the flies and mosquitoes which disturbed
his nightly rest. He thus describes this remarkable
pet: "I fed him with flies for a few days,
until he began to find himself in very comfortable
quarters, and thought of spinning a nest
and making his home. This he did by winding
himself round and round, combing out the silk
from the spinnerets at the end of his body till
he had made a nest as large as a wine-glass, in
which he sat motionless until he saw a fly get
inside our gauzy tent; then I could fancy I saw his
eyes twinkle as his victim buzzed about, till, when
it was within a yard or so of him, he took one
spring and the fly was in his forceps, and another
leap took him back to his den, where he soon
finished the savoury morsel. Sometimes he would
bound from side to side of the bed and seize a
mosquito at every spring, resting only a moment
on the net to swallow it. In another corner of
the room was the nest of a female Mygale of the
same species. She spun some beautiful little silk
bags, larger than a thimble, of tough yellow silk,
in each of which she laid more than a dozen
eggs. When these hatched the young spiders<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></SPAN></span>
used to live on her back until they were old
enough to hunt for themselves. I kept my useful
friend on my bed for more than a year and
a half, when, unfortunately, a new housemaid
spied his pretty brown house, pulled it down,
and crushed under her black feet my poor companion."
This kind of spider, or an allied species,
captures large butterflies in the tropical woods by
hanging strong silken noozes from branches of
trees, and they have been seen to kill small birds
by this method. One of our British spiders lives
under water in a dome-like cell of silk, which is
filled with air like a diving-bell by the spider
carrying down successive globules of air between
its legs, which it liberates under the dome until
it is filled; and the young are hatched there.</p>
<p>The spider, on its way through the water, never
gets wet. It is hairy, and is enveloped in a bubble
of air, in which it moves about protected from
wet and well supplied with air to breathe. As
the spider's supply of food is always precarious,
they are able to live a long time without eating.
One is known to have lived eighteen months
corked up in a phial, where it could obtain no<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></SPAN></span>
food; but though thus able to fast, the spider is
a voracious feeder, and will eat his own kith
and kin when hard pressed by hunger.</p>
<p>I believe it is now thought that the spider of
the Scriptures was a kind of spiny lizard called
the Gecko. One of this species was sent to me
from California, and lived for a few weeks, but
as nothing would induce it to eat, to my great
regret it pined and died. It was about as large
as an ordinary full-grown toad, of a speckled grey
colour, with rich brown markings, its head something
like a lizard, with large thorny projections
which extended all along the spine. The feet
were very remarkable, each toe being furnished
with a sucker which enabled the Gecko to walk
with perfect ease in any position on a wall or pane
of glass without losing its hold; and travellers
say that it is a frequent inmate of Eastern houses,
and may be seen catching flies as it creeps along
walls and ceilings.</p>
<p>Many kinds of spiders run with ease upon the
surface of ponds and ditches, and one forms a
kind of raft of a few dead leaves woven together,
on which it sits and is blown by the wind hither<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></SPAN></span>
and thither, and thus is enabled to prey upon
various aquatic insects.</p>
<p>The surface of grass lawns may be seen on
autumnal mornings covered with tiny webs
gemmed with dew. We may therefore estimate
the immense number of flies captured by these
traps so thickly spread over the grass, and see
in them another proof of the adaptation of each
created thing for its special purpose, and how
wonderfully the balance of nature is maintained,
so that one creature keeps another in check, and
all work harmoniously together, according to the
will of our great Creator.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-049" id="illus-049"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p172.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="319" height-obs="182" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-050" id="illus-050"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p173.png" alt="BUTTERFLY" title="BUTTERFLY" width-obs="294" height-obs="213" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="TAME_BUTTERFLIES." id="TAME_BUTTERFLIES."></SPAN>
<h2>TAME BUTTERFLIES.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
N <i>The Century</i>, for June, 1883, Mr. Gosse
described a monument, in which the
sculptor had carved a child holding out
her hand for butterflies to perch on. He
went on to say that this was criticised
as improbable, even by so exact an observer as
the late Lord Tennyson. It may therefore be of
some interest to record the following facts from
my personal experience.</p>
</div>
<p>One summer I watched the larvæ of the swallow-tailed
butterfly through their different stages, and
reserved two chrysalides to develop into the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></SPAN></span>
perfect insect. In due time one of these fairy-like
creatures came out. I placed it in a small Indian
cage, made of fine threads of bamboo. A carpet
of soft moss and a vase of flowers in the centre
made a pleasant home for my tiny "Psyche."</p>
<p>I found that she greatly enjoyed a repast of
honey; when some was placed on a leaf within her
reach, she would uncoil her long proboscis and
draw up the sweet food with great apparent enjoyment.</p>
<p>She was so tame that it became my habit, once
or twice a day, to take her on my finger; and
while I walked in the garden she would take short
flights hither and thither, but was always content
to mount upon my hand again. She would come
on my finger of her own accord, and, if the day
was bright, would remain there as long as I had
patience to carry her, with her wings outspread,
basking in the sunbeams, which appeared to
convey exquisite delight to the delicate little
creature.</p>
<p>I never touched her beautiful wings. She never
fluttered or showed any wish to escape, but lived
three weeks of tranquil life in her tiny home; and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></SPAN></span>
then having, as I suppose, reached the limit of
butterfly existence, she quietly ceased to live.</p>
<p>On the day of her death the other butterfly
emerged, and lived for the same length of time.
Both were equally tame, but the second showed
more intelligence, for she discovered that by folding
her wings together she could easily walk between
the slender bars of the cage; and having done so
she would fly to a window, and remain there
basking in the sun, folding and unfolding her wings
with evident enjoyment, until I presented my
finger, when she would immediately step upon it
and be carried back to her cage.</p>
<p>The tameness of these butterflies I ascribed in
great measure to the fact of their having been
hatched from chrysalides, and having therefore
never known the sweets of liberty. I often
wondered if really wild specimens could be won by
gentle kindness and made happy in confinement,
and one bright summer's day I resolved to try. A
"Painted Lady" had been seen in the garden the
day before, and I soon caught sight of her making
rapid flights from one bed of flowers to another,
and when resting for a few minutes, folding and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></SPAN></span>
unfolding her wings on the gravel path, I crept
slowly up to her with a drop of honey on my finger
to try and make friends; but my "lady" was coy,
"she would and she wouldn't," and after letting me
come within a few inches with my tempting repast,
she floated away, out of sight, and I feared she
would not be willing to give me another chance;
however, I waited quietly, and in a few minutes she
alighted at a little distance. I again drew near
very slowly, and again she sailed away, but the
third time she gained confidence enough to reach
out her proboscis and taste the honey, and finally
crept upon my finger. I very gently placed the
light bamboo cage over her and brought her indoors;
she, all the while, entranced with the sweet
food, remained quietly on my finger, and when
satisfied, crept upon a flower in the middle of the
cage, and after a few flutterings round her cage
seemed content and folded her delicate wings to
rest. Whilst engaged in her capture I had
observed a "Red Admiral" hovering over some
dahlias, and thinking "Cynthia"<SPAN name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</SPAN> might like a
companion, I tried my blandishments upon <ins class="transcriber"
title="Transcriber's note: missing period added.">him.</ins></p>
<div class="footnote"><p class="footnote"><SPAN name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2"></SPAN>
<SPAN href="#FNanchor_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></SPAN>
The former Latin name for the "Painted Lady" butterfly</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>I had not much hope of success, for though a bold,
fearless fellow, he is very wary, and his powerful
wings bear him away in swift flight when alarmed.
Many a circle did I make around that dahlia bed!
"Admiral" always preferred the opposite side to
where I stood, and calmly crossed over whilst I
went round. At last, by long and patient waiting,
he, too, allowed me to come near and present my
seductive food to his notice—the wiry proboscis was
uncoiled and felt about for the honey; once plunged
into that, all volition seemed to cease, he allowed
me to coax him upon my finger, and he, too, was
safely caged; but he behaved very differently from
"fair Cynthia." The moment his repast was ended
he flapped with desperate force against the bars,
and in a minute he was out and on the window-pane,
fluttering to escape. The cage had to be
secured with fine net, and he was replaced and
soon quieted down. Twice a day these delicate
little pets would come upon my hand to receive
their sweet food, and appeared perfectly content in
captivity.</p>
<hr class="major" />
<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-051" id="illus-051"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p178.png" alt="ANT-LION" title="ANT-LION" width-obs="336" height-obs="194" /><br/></div>
<div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em">
<SPAN name="ANT-LIONS." id="ANT-LIONS."></SPAN>
<h2>ANT-LIONS.</h2>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">(Myrmeleon Formicarius.)</span></p>
</div>
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<p class='ornate'>
ANY years ago a friend sent me
some of these remarkable insects
from the Riviera, and for sixteen
months I fed them as regularly as
possible, but the cold of a remarkably
severe winter killed them, to my great disappointment,
as I had hoped to be rewarded by a
sight of the perfect insect.</p>
</div>
<p>Ant-lions are not, I believe, found in any part
of England, so I had to wait till I could again<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></SPAN></span>
procure some from the south of France, where
they are frequently met with in dry, sandy places.</p>
<p>Early in March this year (1890) three specimens
were sent me and were at once placed in a box
of dry silver sand, where they buried themselves
and remained quietly resting for some hours.</p>
<p>Many of my readers may be interested to know
what the ant-lion is like, and why I thought it
worth while to take great pains to rear it.
These young specimens were flat, grey, six-legged
creatures about the size of a small lady-bird,
covered with hairs, and possessing two strong
forceps projecting from their heads. They are
so formed that they cannot go forward, but move
always backward by a series of jerks. As they
live upon ants and are so strangely formed, they
have to resort to stratagem in order to entrap
their prey, and this they do by means of pits
formed in the sand in which they live; into these
pits the ants fall, and are seized by the forceps
of the ant-lion, who lies in wait at the bottom.</p>
<p>Many a time have I watched the formation of
these pits, and will try to describe the process.
The insect begins describing a small circle on<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></SPAN></span>
the surface of the sand by jerking himself backwards
and flinging the sand away with his flat
head and closed forceps, which form a kind of
shovel. Each circle is smaller than the last, until
the pit is like an inverted cone, and the ant-lion
lies buried at the bottom, only his forceps being
visible. When an ant has fallen headlong down
into the pit it makes frantic efforts to escape, and
if the ant-lion sees that it is likely to get beyond
his reach, he then with his forceps flings some sand
at it with such unerring aim the poor victim is sure
to roll over and over until it reaches the jaws of
its captor, who feasts upon it and then flings the
remains of the body out of the pit.</p>
<p>One difficulty was how to ensure a supply of
ants, but this was overcome by filling a box with
part of an ants' nest, and as these insects settled
down and seemed content with their quarters,
they were ready when wanted, and three times a
day the lions had to be fed! One learns to
sacrifice one's feelings in the cause of science,
but to the last it was a real distress to me to have
to put the poor little ants where they would be
devoured; but Nature is cruel, and from the real<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></SPAN></span>
lion to his insect namesake, preying upon one
another seems the prevailing law of her realm.</p>
<p>As the ant-lions grew, the pits increased in
size. At first they were about as large as a
threepenny-piece, but ended by measuring more
than two inches across.</p>
<p>I could not tell whether the insect moulted
its skin, as it was always hidden, but in July,
after four months' feeding, the ant-lions changed
into chrysalides, which looked like perfectly round
balls of sand.</p>
<p>The box was placed in a warm greenhouse, and
in seven weeks' time the perfect insects appeared.
They were like small dragon-flies, with slender
bodies, four black-spotted gauzy wings, two large
black eyes and short antennæ.</p>
<p>I had read about their being nocturnal insects,
feeding on flies, so they had that diet provided
for them in the glass globe in which they were
kept, but I could never feel sure that they ate the
flies, and fearing they would be starved I tried
giving them a little sweet food, a drop of raspberry
syrup at the end of a twig; it seemed to
be the right thing, for they greedily sucked it in,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></SPAN></span>
but in spite of all my care they only lived four
weeks; which, however, is probably the term of
their existence.</p>
<p>Whilst I was writing this paper a singular
incident occurred. I heard a strange, wild note,
and something brilliant dashed past me to the
end of the room, and there, on a white marble
bust sat a lovely kingfisher—a bird I had hardly
ever seen, even at a distance, and here he had
come to pay me a visit in my drawing-room.
Would that I could have told him how welcome
he was! but, alas! he darted about the room in
wild alarm, flew against the looking-glasses, and
though I tried to guard him from a plate-glass
window, that has often proved fatal to birds, I
was too late; he came with a crash against it and
fell down quite dead, his neck being broken by
the force of the blow.</p>
<p>I had heard that a kingfisher had been seen at
my lake, and hoped that the bird might build
and become established there; it was, therefore, a
keen regret to me that this bright visitant had met
with such an untimely fate.</p>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></SPAN></span></p>
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<SPAN name="ROBINS_I_HAVE_KNOWN." id="ROBINS_I_HAVE_KNOWN."></SPAN>
<h2>ROBINS I HAVE KNOWN.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
F I once begin to speak about these
winning, confiding little birds, I shall
hardly know when to stop. There can
scarcely be a more delightful pet than
a wild robin which has learnt to love
you, and will come indoors and be your quiet companion
for hours together. One can feel happy
in the thought that he has his liberty and his
natural food out of doors, and that he gives you his
companionship freely because he likes to be with
you, and shows that he does, by singing his sweet<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></SPAN></span>
songs perched on the looking-glass or some vase of
flowers.</p>
</div>
<p>Autumn is the best time to begin taming such a
little friend. When one of those brown-coated
young birds in his first year's plumage (before the
red feathers show) takes to haunting the window-ledge,
or looks up inquiringly from the gravel path
outside, then is the time to throw out a mealworm,
four or five times a day, when the bird appears.
He will soon associate you with his pleasant diet,
and come nearer, and grow daily less fearful, until,
by putting mealworms on a mat just inside the
room, he will come in and take them, and at last
learn to be quite content to remain. The first few
times the window should be left open to let him
retreat, for unless he feels he can come and go at
will he will probably make a dash at a closed
window, not seeing the glass, and be fatally injured,
or else too frightened to return.</p>
<p>Like all other taming, it must be carried on with
patience.</p>
<p>One summer, many years ago, we occupied an
old-fashioned house in the country, where, in
perfect quietude, one could make acquaintance<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></SPAN></span>
with birds and study their habits and manners
without interruption. From the veranda of a
large, low-ceilinged sitting-room one looked out
upon a garden of the olden type, full of moss-grown
apple-trees, golden daffodils, lupines and
sweet herbs, that pleasant mixture of the kitchen
and flower garden which always seems so enjoyable.
It was an ideal home for birds, no cat was
ever visible, and from the numbers of the feathered
folk one could believe that countless generations
had been reared in these apple-trees and lived out
their little lives in perfect happiness. I soon found
a friend amongst the robins; one in particular
began to pay me frequent visits as I sat at work
indoors. At first he ventured in rather timidly,
took a furtive glance and then flew away, but
finding that crumbs were scattered for him, and
while he picked them up a kindly voice encouraged
his advances, he soon became at ease, made his
way into the room and seemed to examine by
turns, with birdish curiosity, all the pieces of
furniture and the various ornaments on the mantelpiece
and tables. Much to my pleasure he began
to sing to me, and very pretty he looked, sitting<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></SPAN></span>
amongst the flowers in a tall vase, warbling his
charming little ditty, keeping his large black eyes
fixed upon me as if to see if I seemed impressed
by his vocal efforts.</p>
<p>Once he stopped in the middle of his song,
looked keenly at a corner of the ceiling, and after
a swift flight there, he returned with a spider in his
beak; one can well believe what good helpers the
insect-eating birds must be to the gardener, by
destroying countless hosts of minute caterpillars
and grubs that would otherwise prey upon the
garden produce. Bobbie continued his visits to
me throughout the summer, remaining happy and
content for hours at a time, pluming himself,
singing, and at times investigating the contents of
a little cupboard, where he sometimes discovered
a cake which was much to his taste, on which he
feasted without any leave asked, though truly it
would have been readily given to such a pleasant
little visitor. He soon showed such entire confidence
in me that he would perch on the book I
was reading, and alight on my lap for crumbs
even when many people were in the room.</p>
<p>When we had to leave this country home I<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></SPAN></span>
wished that dear Bobbie could have been packed
up to go elsewhere with our other possessions, but
since this could not be, let us hope he still inhabits
the old garden and cheers other home-dwellers
with his confiding manners and morning and
evening songs of praise.</p>
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<SPAN name="ROBERT_THE_SECOND." id="ROBERT_THE_SECOND."></SPAN>
<h2>ROBERT THE SECOND.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
FTER slight intimacies with various
robins who were visitors to the conservatory
and found their way in and
out at the open windows, I was led to
special friendship with a brown-coated
young bird I used often to see close to the open
French window where I was sitting. He was
coaxed into the room by mealworms being thrown
to him until he made himself quite at home
indoors. By the time he had attained his red
breast the weather had become too cold for open
windows, but Bobbie would sit on the ledge and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></SPAN></span>
wait till I let him in, and then he would be my
happy little companion for the whole morning,
flitting all about the room, along the corridor, into
the hall—in fact, he was to be found all over the
house; but when hungry he returned to me as his
best friend, because I was the provider of his
delightsome mealworms. It was always amusing
to visitors to see me feed my small fowl! He
would be on the alert to see where his prey
was to be found, and he would hunt for it perseveringly
if it happened to fall out of sight. He
was often to be seen perched on the Californian
mouse's cage, and I wondered what could be the
attraction; at last I discovered that he coveted
mousie's brown biscuits, and after that he was
allowed one for his own use, kept in a special
corner, where a cup of water was also provided for
his small requirements.</p>
</div>
<p>However tame wild birds may seem there will
be times when all at once a sort of intense longing
to get out seems to possess them. When this was
the case Bobbie would fly backwards and forwards
uttering his plaintive cry (one of the six kinds
of notes by which robins express their feelings),<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></SPAN></span>
and his distress was so evident that the window
was always opened at once to let him go out.</p>
<p>I am sorry to have to confess that robins are
most vindictive towards each other! Bobbie maintained
a very angry warfare with a hated rival out-of-doors,
in fact his chief occupation in life seemed
to be watching for his enemy. He might often
be seen sitting under a small palm in a pot on the
window-ledge, and whilst looking the picture of
gentle innocence he was, I fear, cherishing envy,
hatred, and malice in his naughty little heart, for,
all at once, there would be a grand fluttering and
pecking at the window whilst the two little furies,
one inside and the other out, expended their
strength in harmless warfare which only ceased
when they were too exhausted to do more, and
then followed on both sides a triumphant song
of defiance or victory.</p>
<p>I must now weave into this biography the life-history
of a poor robin which, I suppose, must
have been caught in a trap, for it had lost the
lower mandible of its beak, and had only a little
knob remaining of the upper mandible. It haunted
the windows, and looked so hungry and miserable<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></SPAN></span>
from its inability to pick up its food, that I thought
it kindest to coax it into a cage where it could
be fed with suitable food. By placing mealworms
in a cage I at last induced it to hop in, and for five
months it had a very happy life indoors, feeding
on soaked brown bread and all the insect diet
I could secure for it. When the cage was cleaned
each morning Bobbie was let out, and would take
a bath in a glass dish, and then fly to the top
of the looking-glass, where he would often remain
all day unless we were quick enough to secure his
cage-door when he went in to feed. By the middle
of May I thought caterpillars would be plentiful
enough for him to find his own living, so one day
he was released, but unhappily Robert the Second
was close by, and the moment he saw the invalid
in his cage on the lawn with the door open, he
rushed in and savagely fought the poor defenceless
bird. Before we could interfere he drove our pet
out of his cage, and terrible was the battle that
went on; the beakless bird was driven far away,
and I was quite unhappy about his fate, for he was
now beyond my loving care, and I never expected
to see him again. Two months passed by, and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></SPAN></span>
I only once caught a glimpse of the invalid, but at
last he came just as before to the window, looking
thin and ill, with ruffled feathers, and evidently
again at starvation point. Once more he entered
his cage and began his old life, only now he was
hung under the veranda so as to enjoy fresh air
and the songs of his companions. For two months
I endeavoured to keep the dear little creature
happy; we were all so fond of him, and it seems
very touching to think that in his times of extremity
he should have come willingly into captivity
and felt sure that a kind welcome would
be accorded him. But no amount of care could
bring him through the moulting season, the lack
of a beak to plume his feathers and his great difficulty
in picking up even the mealworms made
him weak and sickly. He got out of his cage one
day into the garden, and a few days after we
found his poor little body lying dead close to the
window where he had always found the help he
needed, and yet we could not but be glad that his
sorrowful little life was ended.</p>
<p>When robins have been thus tamed for years
the families they rear are like pet birds; they are<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></SPAN></span>
fed by their parents close to the windows, and
then come indoors, as if they knew they would be
welcome everywhere.</p>
<p>There is one feature in the robin's character
that, as far as I know, is shared by no other bird;
I mean his adopting a certain spot as his district
and always keeping to it, just as the stickle-backs
portion out a pond and jealously defend the
territory they have chosen. Here, there is a
special robin to be found at each of the lodges;
one haunts the Mission Hall and will often sing
vigorously from the reading-stand while classes are
going on. A very tame one lives in the coachman's
house, running about the floor like a little
brown mouse, and sitting inside the fender on
cold days to warm himself. He must have met
with trouble in his early youth, for when first seen
he was very lame, and had lost the sight of one
eye. Through kind care he has become well and
strong, but he is much at the mercy of his enemies,
who often attack him on his blind side. The
conservatory, dining-room, and drawing-rooms
have each their little redbreast visitor; the latter
is so tame he will take meal-worms from my hand,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></SPAN></span>
and sits on my inkstand singing a sweet, low song
whilst I write. As long as each bird keeps to his
domain there is peace, but woe to any intruder!
The conflicts are desperate, and I have often to
mediate, and separate two little furies rolling over
and over on the ground. I suppose it is in this
way that the idea has arisen about the young
robins killing the old ones; I cannot ascertain
that it has any foundation—in fact, every robin
fights his neighbour all the year through, except
when paired and busy with domestic duties. As
dead redbreasts are not found specially in autumn,
I do not think there can be any truth in the
superstition.</p>
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<p class="newchap"><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-056" id="illus-056"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p195.png" alt="YOUNG BIRDS" title="YOUNG BIRDS" width-obs="327" height-obs="223" /><br/></div>
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<SPAN name="FEEDING_BIRDS_IN_SUMMER" id="FEEDING_BIRDS_IN_SUMMER"></SPAN>
<h2>FEEDING BIRDS IN SUMMER<br/>AND WINTER.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
N wintry mornings, when leaf and twig
are decked with hoar-frost and the
ground is hard and dry, affording no
food for the birds, it is a piteous sight
to see them cowering under the evergreens
with ruffled feathers, evidently starving and miserable,
quietly waiting for the death that must overtake
many of them unless we come to their rescue.</p>
</div>
<p>It is one of my delights to feed the small
"feathered fowls" through all the winter months,
and I only wish all my readers could enjoy with
me the lovely scenes of happy bird life to be<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></SPAN></span>
witnessed through the French window opposite
my writing-table. These gatherings of birds are
the result of many years of persistent kindness and
thought for the welfare of my bird pets. Their
tameness cannot be attained all at once; it takes
time to establish confidence; it needs thought
about the kinds of food required by various species
of birds, regularity in feeding, and quiet gentleness
of manner to avoid frightening any new and timid
visitors. Doubtless there are very many lovers
of birds who share this pleasure with me, but for
those who may not happen to know how to attract
the feathered tribes I will go a little into detail.</p>
<p>This being a large garden near game preserves,
and surrounded by a wide, furze-covered common,
I have been able to attract and tame the ordinary
wild pheasants by putting out Indian corn, buckwheat,
and raisins, till now they come to the doorstep
and look up with their brilliant, red-ringed
eyes, and feed calmly whilst I watch them. It is
a really beautiful sight to see three or four cock
birds, with their golden-bronze plumage glistening
like polished metal as the morning sun rests upon
them, and as many of their more sober-coloured<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></SPAN></span>
mates feasting on the dainties they find prepared
for them; as a rule, they are very amicable and
feed together like barndoor fowls. When satisfied,
the brown hens run swiftly away to cover, while
the cocks, with greater confidence, walk quietly
away in stately fashion, or remain under the trees.</p>
<p>Wood-pigeons are usually very shy and wary
birds, yet these also come, six and eight at a time,
and feed at my window, Indian corn and peas
being their specialities. I have large quantities
of beech-nuts and acorns collected every autumn,
and thus I can scatter this food also for pigeons
and squirrels all through the winter. Jays, jackdaws,
rooks, and magpies also approve of acorns
and beech-nuts, so it is doing a real kindness to
tribes of birds to reserve this food for them until
their other stores are exhausted, and we can thus
bring them within our view and study their interesting
ways, their modes of feeding, and, I fear
I must add, their squabbles also, for hungry birds
are very pugnacious.</p>
<p>Blackbirds and thrushes are very fond of Sultana
raisins; they also like split groats and brown bread
crumbs, as also do starlings and, I believe, most<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></SPAN></span>
of the smaller birds. Fat in any shape or form
will attract the various species of titmice to the
window. I always keep a small Normandy basket
full of suet and ham-fat hanging on a nail at
the window. It is a great rendezvous for these
charming little pets, and it is also supplied with
Barcelona nuts for nuthatches, who fully appreciate
them and carry them off to the nearest tree with
rugged bark into which they fix the nuts, and then
hammer at the shell till they can extract the
contents.</p>
<p>In very hard frosts I used always to put out
a pan of water, as I feared the birds suffered from
thirst and needed this help. One day, however,
I was comforted to see some starlings, after a good
meal of groats, run off to the grass plot and eagerly
peck at the hoar-frost, which, while it exists, thus
supplies the lack of water.</p>
<p>Bewick says linnets are so named from their
fondness for linseed, and I think most of the
finches like it. The greenfinch is soon attracted
by hemp seed, and all the smaller birds by canary
seed. I hope this paper may induce many kind
hands to minister to the needs of our feathered<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></SPAN></span>
friends during the winter months. It is sad to
think of their dying for lack of the food we can
so easily afford them, and they will be sure to
repay us by their sweet songs and confiding
tameness when summer days return.</p>
<p>One is apt to think that winter is the only time
when birds need our help and bounty, but there
is almost as much real distress after a long drought
in summer, especially amongst the insect-eating
birds.</p>
<p>I was led to think of this by the pathetic
way in which a hen blackbird came to the French
window of my room early in June last and stood
patiently waiting and clicking time after time in
trouble of <i>some</i> kind I knew, and, supposing it
might be food, I threw out a plentiful supply of
soaked brown bread. At once the poor bird went
to it, devouring ravenously for her own needs, and
then, filling her beak as full as it would hold, she
flew off with a supply for her young brood. Then
came thrushes, robins, sparrows, a whole bevy
of feathered folk all doing the same thing—carrying
the provisions in every direction for unseen families
at starvation point, and I began to realize that<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></SPAN></span>
the month of continued sunshine in which we had
rejoiced had brought great distress upon the birds
by drying up the lawns so that no worms could
be found, and, as it was early in the year, but few
insects were to be had, so that just when each pair
of birds had a clamorous brood to provide for the
food supply had fallen short. Now I understood
the pathos of the hen blackbird's appeal; her dark
eyes and note of distress were trying to say to me,
"I know you care for us; you seemed so kind
last winter; when we were without food you
fed us and saved our lives; but now I am in far
deeper distress—my children are crying for food,
the grass is dried up, and the ground so hard that
I cannot find a single worm, I am thin and worn
with hunger myself; do help me and my little
ones, and we will sing you sweet songs in return
to cheer you when wintry days come back again.
Does she understand? I've said all this several
times before, but I thought I would make one last
appeal before my children die. Yes; she has left
the room! I will wait. Ah! here it is, just the
soft food that will suit my little ones: how they
<i>will</i> rejoice and all want to be fed at once. I hope
my friend can understand that I am thanking her<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></SPAN></span>
with all my heart." Love has a universal language
and can interpret through varied signs, and thus
I quite believe the mother bird's heart wished
to express itself.</p>
<p>Ever since that day I have been careful in
nesting time to supply suitable and varied food
for the families of young birds in times of drought,
for it seems mournful to think of their dying from
want, in the season of flowers and green leaves,
when nature is to us so attractive, and rendered all
the more so by their sweet songs.</p>
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<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-058" id="illus-058"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p202.png" alt="RAB MINOR" title="RAB MINOR" width-obs="285" height-obs="285" /><br/></div>
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<SPAN name="RAB_MINOR." id="RAB_MINOR."></SPAN>
<h2>RAB, MINOR.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
HIS familiar name recalls the delightful
story of "Rab and his Friends" in
"Horæ Subsicivæ," with its naïve description
of a very original "tyke" of a
doggie—a biography which had so lived in
my recollection that when a queer little fluffy
dumpling of a puppy was given me I could not
help giving it the old familiar name, little knowing
how aptly true the name would prove to be in after
years.</p>
</div>
<p>Is there anything more comical than a young
Scotch terrier puppy, with its preternatural gravity,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></SPAN></span>
its queer, ungainly attempts at play, its tumbles,
and blue-eyed simplicity, and, best of all, its sage
look, with head on one side, trying to consider the
merits of some doggie idea which is puzzling his
infant brain? Rab went through all the stages of
puppyhood, showing the usual amount of mischief
and fun; he might be met carrying about some
unfortunate slipper frayed to pieces by his busy
teeth, or burying a favourite bone under a wool
mat in the drawing-room, or, worse still, it is recorded
in domestic chronicles that he buried a
hymn-book in the garden, whereupon the cook
remarked that she believed he had more religion
in him than half the Christians; but that
reasoning was not apparent to any one but herself.</p>
<p>Rab's most notable adventures took place after
he had emerged from puppyhood. He had a most
indomitable spirit of disobedience; he would hunt
rabbits or anything else he could find in the woods,
and one day he reached home with a snare tightly
drawn round his neck, and panting distressingly
for breath; the wire was cut only just in time to
save his life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>Another time he was poisoned by something he
had eaten, and had a long suffering illness.</p>
<p>His fights with other dogs were fierce and frequent,
and whilst engaged in a scrimmage with a
hated rival, Rab was run over by a passing cart,
and limped home in a very dejected state; no
bones were broken, but he was an invalid for some
months in consequence.</p>
<p>At last it was thought needful to tie him up,
and he had his appointed house and a long chain,
and with frequent exercise he became quite content.
One morning our brave little friend was
found nearly dead, with two terrible wounds in his
neck, which must have been made by a sharp knife,
driven twice through his throat, but, strangely
enough, had each time just missed severing the
wind-pipe. He had nearly died from loss of blood,
and was scarcely able to breathe; still, our kind
servants did not give him up; warm milk and beef
tea were given him constantly through the day;
and by night he had revived a little, and was
evidently going to live. We could never trace the
origin of this outrage, and could only suppose that
burglars had purposed breaking into our house,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></SPAN></span>
and, enraged at Rab's barking, had at last got hold
of, and, as they thought, killed him, and flung the
body into an adjoining field. Poor little doggie!
he suffered grievously for his brave defence, and
for months the wounds were a great distress to him
and to us; but all that loving care could do was done,
and once more his wonderful constitution enabled
him to regain health and strength. We kept at
that time several very large mastiffs, and the next
adventure occurred early one morning, when we
were aroused by a terrific noise in the stable-yard,
and the message brought to us was to the effect
that Rab was quite dead. He had been worried
by one of the mastiffs which had got loose in the
night. I rose quickly and went to see the poor
little victim's body, and looking at it, I saw a little
quiver in the eyelid that led to a gleam of hope. I
had him carried indoors, and again teaspoons of
milk, &c., were given, and actually he began to
revive, and a feeble wag of his tail, seemed to say,
"I'm very bad, but not dead yet." The sad part
was that the shaking and worrying he had received
had reopened the previous wounds, and though
after a time he was able to get about, he was quite<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></SPAN></span>
a wreck; one ear was gone, and the other, strange
to say, was but a fragment, like his namesake in
"Rab and his Friends." Still, he lived to be
nearly fifteen, and then rheumatism and loss of
teeth made his life a distress to him, and he was
peacefully dismissed to the rest he had bravely
earned by his life of courageous devotion to what
he thought the path of duty.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-059" id="illus-059"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p206.png" alt="RAB MINOR RUNNING" title="RAB MINOR RUNNING" width-obs="344" height-obs="192" /><br/></div>
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<SPAN name="A_VISIT_TO_JAMRACH." id="A_VISIT_TO_JAMRACH."></SPAN>
<h2>A VISIT TO JAMRACH.</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
HERE is an old and true saying—"Everything
comes to him who
waits." I thought of this saying while
on my way to visit the well-known place
near the London Docks where Mr. Jamrach
is supposed to keep almost every rare animal, bird,
and reptile, ready to supply the wants of all
customers at a moment's notice. For many long
years I had wished to pay him a visit, but ill-health
and other causes had proved a hindrance and I
could hardly believe my wish was going to be
realized when I found myself on the way to his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></SPAN></span>
menagerie. After driving through a labyrinth of
narrow, dirty streets, we were at last obliged to get
out and walk till we came to the shop, and then
we did indeed find ourselves in the midst of
"animated nature." We had landed amongst the
cockatoos, macaws, and parrots, and they greeted
our arrival with such a chorus of shrieks, screams,
and hideous cries that my first desire was to rush
away anywhere out of the reach of such ear-piercing
sounds. One had to bear it, however, if the
curious creatures in the various cages were to be
examined, and after a time the uproar grew less,
and I could hear a word or two from Mr. Jamrach,
who called my attention to some armadillos, huge
armour-plated animals, very curious, but somehow
not attractive as pets; one could not fondle a thing
composed of metal plates, shaped like a pig, with a
tendency to roll itself up into a ball on the slightest
provocation, and even Mr. Jamrach's argument
that if I got tired of it as a pet I could have it
cooked, as they were excellent eating, failed to
lead me to a purchase. There was a fine, healthy
toucan, with his marvellous bill, looking sadly out
of place in a small cage in such a dingy place. Did<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></SPAN></span>
he ever think of his tropical forest home, I wondered,
and wish himself in happier surroundings?
A long wooden box with wire front contained rows
and rows of Grass Parrakeets: many hundreds
must have been on those perches, one behind the
other, poor little patient birdies, sitting in solemn
silence, never moving an inch, for they were wedged
in as closely as they could sit and how they could
eat and live seemed a mystery. As I was in quest
of some small rodents I was asked to follow Mr.
Jamrach to another place where the animals were
kept. We came to a back yard with dens and
cages containing all kinds of tenants, from fierce
hyenas and wolves to tame deer, monkeys, cats,
and dogs. A chorus of yelps and barks and
growls sounded a little uninviting, and a caution
from Jamrach, to mind the camel did not seize my
young friend's hat, made us aware of a stately form
gazing down upon us from a recess we had not
before noticed. Every nook and corner seemed
occupied, and in order to see a kangaroo rat I was
invited up a rickety ladder into a loft where a
Japanese cat, a large monkey, and sundry other
creatures lived. I did not take to the kangaroo<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></SPAN></span>
rat, he was too large and formidable to be pleasant,
and was by no means tame, but to be pulled out of
the cage by his long tail was, I confess, enough to
scare the mildest quadruped. At length I was
shown some Peruvian guinea-pigs. Wonderful little
creatures! With hair three or four inches long,
white, yellow and black, set on anyhow, sticking
out in odd tufts, one side of their heads white and
the other black, their eyes just like boot buttons,
they <i>were</i> captivating; and a pair had to be chosen
forthwith, and packed in a basket with a tortoise
and a huge Egyptian lizard, and with these spoils
I was not sorry to leave this place of varied noises
and smells. The lizard was about fourteen inches
long, a really grand creature. He came from the
ruins of ancient Egypt, and looked in his calm
stateliness as though he might have gazed upon
the Pharaohs themselves. When placed in the sun
for a time he would sometimes deign to move a
few inches, his massive, grey, scaly body looking
very like a young crocodile. I was greatly teased
about my fondness for "Rameses," as I called this
new and majestic pet; there was a great fascination
about him, and as I really wished to know more of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></SPAN></span>
his ways and habits, I carried the basket in which
he lived everywhere with me indoors and out, and
studied all possible ways of feeding him; but alas!
nothing would induce him to eat. After gazing for
five minutes at the most tempting mealworm, he
would at last raise up his mighty head and appear
to be revolving great ideas to which mealworms
and all sublunary things must give place. Jamrach
told me that the lizard would drink milk, so a
saucerful was placed before him, and once he did
drink a few drops, but generally he walked into
and over the saucer as if it did not exist.</p>
</div>
<p>I believe the poor creature had been without
food so long that it had lost the power of taking
nourishment, and to my great regret I found it grew
weaker and thinner, and at last it died, and all I
could do was to send the remains to a naturalist
to be preserved somewhat after the fashion of its
great namesake.</p>
<p>The odd little guinea-pigs were named Fluff and
Jamrach, and were a source of much amusement.
As they could not agree, and as the fights grew
serious, Jamrach was banished to the stable and
Fluff occupied a cage in the dining-room. When<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></SPAN></span>
let out it was curious to see how he would always
keep close to the sides of the room—never would he
venture into the middle, the protection of the
skirting board seemed indispensable, and when let
out under the tulip-tree he ran round the trunk in
the same way, only occasionally making an excursion
to the edge of the branches which rested on
the ground, the space beyond was a <i>terra incognita</i>
which could not be explored by the timid little
beastie.</p>
<p>There the two little guinea-pigs enjoyed a happy
life on fine days and grew to be friends at last,
grunting little confidences one to the other and
going to sleep side by side. They had to be
watched and their liberty a good deal curtailed
when we found a weasel began to appear upon the
scene, and as it is proverbially difficult to catch a
weasel either awake or asleep, he has not at present
been captured. I much fear if he ever attacked the
little Peruvians they would stand a poor chance of
their lives, for they have no idea of self-defence and
would fall an easy prey to such a fierce, relentless
persecutor. Perhaps the gardener may devise
some way of trapping the wary little creature, so<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></SPAN></span>
that my little friends may dwell in peace under
the shady tree.</p>
<p>As the winter came on the cold prevented Fluff
going out-of-doors, and he led a most inactive life.
I don't think he ever had more than two ideas in
his little brain—he just lived to eat and sleep, and
was about as interesting as a stuffed animal would
have been. He is the only instance of any animal I
have ever known who seemed to be literally without
a single habit, apparently without affection,
without a temper good or bad, with no wishes or
desires except to be let alone to doze away his
aimless life.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-061" id="illus-061"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p213.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="318" height-obs="136" /><br/></div>
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<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-062" id="illus-062"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p214.png" alt="NEST OF WASPS" title="NEST OF WASPS" width-obs="303" height-obs="250" /><br/></div>
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<SPAN name="HOW_TO_OBSERVE_NATURE" id="HOW_TO_OBSERVE_NATURE"></SPAN>
<h2>HOW TO OBSERVE NATURE</h2></div>
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<p class='ornate'>
HERE is all the difference between
taking a walk simply for exercise, for
some special errand, or to enjoy conversation
with one's friends, and the sort
of quiet observant stroll I am going to ask
my kind readers to take with me to-day.</p>
</div>
<p>This beautiful world is full of wonders of every
kind, full of evidences of the Great Creator's wisdom
and skill in adapting each created thing to its
special purpose. The whole realm of nature is
meant, I believe, to <i>speak to us</i>, to teach us lessons
in parables—to lead our hearts upward to God who<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></SPAN></span>
made us and fitted us also for our special place in
creation.</p>
<p>In the nineteenth Psalm David speaks of the
two great books God has given us for our instruction.
In the first six verses he speaks of the teachings
of the book of nature and the rest of the
Psalm deals with the written Word of God.</p>
<p>We acknowledge and read the Scriptures as the
book which reveals the will of God and His
wondrous works for the welfare of mankind, but
how many fail to give any time or thought to
reading the book of nature! Thousands may travel
and admire beautiful scenery, and derive a certain
amount of pleasure from nature, just glancing at
each object, but really observing nothing, and
thus failing to learn any of the lessons this world's
beauty is intended to teach, they might almost as
well have stayed at home save for the benefit of
fresh air and change of scene. The habit of minute
and careful observation is seldom taught in childhood,
and is not very likely to be gained in later
life when the mind is filled with other things. Yet
if natural objects are presented attractively to the
young, how quickly they are interested! Question<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></SPAN></span>
after question is asked, and unconsciously a vast
amount of information may be conveyed to an
intelligent child's mind by a simple, happy little
chat about some bird or insect. This is <i>admirably</i>
shown in a chapter on Education in the Life of Mrs.
Sewell. I would strongly urge every mother to read
and follow the advice there given.</p>
<p>We will now start for our garden walk. We
have not taken many steps before we are led to
pause and inquire why there should be little
patches of grey-looking mud in the small angles of
the brickwork of the house. Opening one of the
patches with a penknife we find a hollow cell, and
in it some green caterpillars just alive but not able
to crawl. Now I see that the cell is the work of
one of the solitary mason wasps; she brings the
material, forms the cell, and when nearly finished
lays her egg at the bottom and provides these half-killed
caterpillars as food for the young grub when
it is hatched, and by the time they are eaten the
grub becomes a pupa and then hatches into a young
wasp to begin life on its own account. One day I
saw a bee go into a hole in the brickwork of the
house, and getting my net I waited to capture it;<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></SPAN></span>
after about five minutes the bee came out and flew
into the net. It proved to be a solitary mason bee,
and was doubtless forming a place to lay its egg,
only, unlike the wasp, she would give the young
grub pollen from the stamens of flowers to feed
upon instead of green caterpillars. I remember
seeing a mass of clay which had been formed into
a wasp's nest by one of the solitary species, under
the flap of a pembroke table in an unused room.
A maid in dusting lifted up the flap, and down fell
a quantity of fine, dry mud with young grubs in it
which would soon have hatched into wasps, and revealed
their rather strange nesting-place. I have in
my collection a very interesting hornet's nest, which
was being constructed in the hollow of an old tree.
I happened to notice a hornet fly into the opening,
and, looking in, there was a small beginning of a
nest. It hung from a kind of stalk and consisted
of only eight cells, each having an egg at the bottom.
I captured the two hornets, and though I watched
for a long time no others ever came, so I imagine
they were the founders of what would have been a
colony in due time.</p>
<p>But we have been kept a long time engaged<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></SPAN></span>
with these mason wasps. Let us start for our walk.
As we take our way through the garden we cannot
help noticing the happy songs of the different birds,
all in full activity preparing their nests, carolling
to their mates or seeking food for the little ones.
There is a loud tapping noise as we pass an old
fir-tree, but no bird is to be seen, so we go round to
the other side and trace the noise to a small hole
near which a quantity of congealed turpentine
shows that the bark has been pierced by a woodpecker
and the sap is oozing out. I rap outside
the hole and in a minute the grey head of a nuthatch
appears. He is evidently chiselling out a
"highly desirable residence" for his summer
quarters in this cosy nook, and the hole being so
small he will not need to get clay to reduce the
size of the opening and plaster in his mate, which
is said to be the curious habit of this bird. Do you
see that hole about forty feet up the stem of the
beech opposite? A nuthatch built there six years
ago; I often watched him going in and out, and
heard his peculiar cry as he brought food for his mate
and her young ones. Next year that lodging was
taken by a starling, who reared a brood there. The<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></SPAN></span>
year after the nuthatch had it, and then a jackdaw
built there; and each year I always feel interested
to see who the lodgers are going to be.</p>
<p>When I was rearing the wild ducks already described,
a weasel used often to be prowling near the
coop, and when frightened retreated in this direction.
It happened one day I was walking softly on
the grass and saw the weasel playing and frisking
at the root of that young tree; one seldom has such
an opportunity of seeing it, for it is very shy and
has wonderfully quick hearing. It was seeking
about in the grass, leaping here and there, snuffing
the wind, with its snake-like, wicked-looking head
raised to see over the grass stems, and thus at last
it caught sight of me, and in a second it darted into
the hole you see there, and I thus learnt where he
lived, but I have not been able to trace his history
any further at present.</p>
<p>Did you see that snake? We have many of them
on the common, and they often cross my path in
the garden. Happily there are not many of the
venomous kind: they are smaller than this one, and
have a <b>V</b>-shaped mark on the head. One day in
August I was sitting by the open French window<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></SPAN></span>
in the drawing-room when one of these harmless
snakes came close to me, looked up at me,
putting its quivering little tongue in and out. I
suppose it decided that I could be trusted, for it
glided in and coiled itself round upon my dress
skirt and seemed to go to sleep. I let it stay
a good while, but fearing some one might be
frightened at seeing it there, I reached my parasol
and with the hooked handle softly took up the
snake and laid it on the grass-plat outside thinking
it would go away—but no, it only turned round
and came back and coiled itself up in the same
place. I found it did not mind being touched, so I
stroked it and made it creep all its length through
my hand—not a very pleasant sensation, but a
curious experience rarely to be met with. When
the cold, clammy creature had passed out of my
hand it threw out a most disgusting odour, of which
I had often read. I imagine it was offended at
my touching it and did this in self-defence. I had
at last to carry it a long distance to ensure it should
not return to the room again.</p>
<p>Some years ago I was witness to the mode in
which a snake pursues its victim. A large frog<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></SPAN></span>
leaped upon the gravel walk before the windows,
crying piteously like a child and taking rapid leaps;
a moment after a large snake appeared swiftly
pursuing the frog. At last it reached it, and gave
it a bite which broke its back, and then, being
alarmed, it darted away amongst some rock-work,
leaving the frog in a dying state.</p>
<p>This bank we are passing is a favourite winter
retreat for female humble bees. Early in the
autumn they begin to scoop out a little tunnel in
this grassy slope, and when it is deep enough to
protect them from the frost they retire into it, and
pushing up the earth behind them close up the
entrance of the hole, and there lie dormant until the
warmth of spring tempts them to come out. Then
they may be found in great numbers on the early
sallow, and other tree-blossoms, recruiting their
strength, while they seek a place in some hedge-bank
wherein to found a new colony.</p>
<p>The Carder bee forms its nest on the ground
and makes a roof of interwoven moss, from which
it takes its name. I once gathered the moss from
such a nest by chance and saw the little mass of
cells with honey in them. I went away, meaning to<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></SPAN></span>
examine it more closely on my return, but a crow
in the apple-tree overhead chanced to spy the
nest and made off with it in his beak before I
could rescue the honey store of the poor little bees
I had so unwittingly injured.</p>
<p>That old tree-stump is being gradually carried
away by wasps. The wood is just sufficiently
decayed to afford the material of which they make
their nests. You see there are several wasps busily
rasping pieces of the rotten wood into convenient-sized
morsels, which they can carry to the nest,
there to be masticated into the papery layers of
which the outer walls of the nest are formed.
This walk used to have a row of grand old silver
firs of great height, but each winter some of them
have been blown down till only a few are left.</p>
<p>Some years since I noticed at the root of one
of them a pile of fine sawdust more than a foot
high, and found that some wood wasps were
busily engaged in excavating the interior of the
tree and forming tunnels in which to lay their
eggs. I watched them for half an hour and found
that every half-minute a wasp went in at the
aperture carrying a blue-bottle or some kind of fly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></SPAN></span>
in its mandibles. Next day I took a friend to see
the wasps, and while watching them the wind caused
the immense tree-stem to sway to and fro from its
base as if in the act of falling, and on examination
we found it was only held in its place by a small portion
of root, and though the branches were green, it
must have been hollow and dead inside, which appears
to be the way in which silver firs decay, and the
wasps had found it out and made a delightful home
in the rotten wood. With some difficulty the great
tree was safely taken down, and then it was a most
curious sight to see the endless chambers and
galleries made in the stem, all tenanted by young
wasp-grubs and half-dead flies; and all the summer
they were being hatched in countless numbers.
The view over our common is lovely from this
point; it is golden with rich yellow gorse, giving
cover to innumerable rabbits, which find their way
into our garden in spite of wire fences and all that
the gardener can do to keep them out. One clever
little mother rabbit made her burrow deep down in a
heap of sawdust close to the stable. My coachman
put his arm down to the bottom of the hole and
brought out a little grey furred creature, kicking<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></SPAN></span>
and screaming with wonderful vigour in spite of
its tender years. The nest was allowed to remain,
and in a few days the mother removed her brood
to a hole at the root of a bushy stone-pine, where
the little ones frisked in and out and looked so
pretty that I was won over to allow them to stay,
and, by netting round the tree, we formed a
miniature warren for the young family; but I fear
that in course of time we may bitterly repent this
step, and the numbers may increase to such an
extent that pinks and lobelia may become things
of the past and the rabbit warren may have to be
abolished.</p>
<p>A fox is sometimes seen and hunted in these
parts. One surprised me by leaping upon the
window-sill and looking into the drawing-room.
At first I could not think what it was. It had been
dug out of its hole; its fur was muddy and torn, its
eyes piteous in their expression, and when it ran
slowly on I saw it was very lame. I ran to the
window to let it in, but though it leaped up to each
window in succession, they all happened to be shut,
and I was quite grieved to think the poor, weary
creature could find no shelter. I am no admirer of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_225" id="Page_225"></SPAN></span>
field-sports. I think they give rise to the utmost
cruelty to the creatures hunted and shot, to the
horses and dogs employed; and to witness torture
inflicted on unoffending animals cannot but have a
debasing effect on the human mind. When once
any one has seen the anguish of a deer, a fox,
or hare, at the end of the race, there can be no
question about the cruelty of the proceeding,
and to one who loves every created thing as I
do, it gives the keenest pain to know how much
suffering of this kind goes on during the hunting
season.<SPAN name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</SPAN></p>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></SPAN> I cannot resist quoting and strongly endorsing the following
lament by Mr. H. Stacy Marks, R.A., as to the way in
which birds are too frequently treated by the public at large:
"Many people regarding birds in but three aspects—as
things to be either eaten, shot, or worn.... No natural
history of a bird is complete without recording where the
last specimen was shot; and should a rare bird visit our
shores, the hospitality which we accord to the foreign
refugee is denied, and it is bound to be the victim of powder
and shot. The fashion of wearing birds or their plumage
as part of ladies' attire, threatens to exterminate many
beautiful species, such as the humming-birds of South
America, the glossy starlings of Africa, and the glorious
Impeyan pheasant of the Himalayas, with many other
species."</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>There goes a cuckoo, with quite a flight of small
birds pursuing him wherever he goes.</p>
<p>Small birds seem to have an intense hatred of
jays and cuckoos, and will often fly at them in the
nesting season, giving them no peace till they drive
them out of the garden, knowing full well that
their own broods are often devoured by the jay,
and that the cuckoo has designs upon the nests.</p>
<p>Although we are some distance from home, I
can show you one of my own bees on this furze
blossom. I have a hive of Swiss, or Ligurian bees,
which are said to be in some respects superior to
the English species. The honey is of excellent
flavour, and the first year I had far more honey
from the Ligurian hive. I do not think any other
hives of Ligurians are kept within five miles, and,
as you see, they have a band of bright yellow on
the abdomen. I can always tell my own bees when
I meet with them in my walks on the common or
in the lanes. I had a rather trying adventure with
these bees last May. One Sunday evening we
were just starting for church, about half-past six,
when my little niece ran in exclaiming that there
was a great bunch of bees hanging on a branch<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_227" id="Page_227"></SPAN></span>
near the hives. I knew what had happened—my
very irreverent bees had swarmed on this quiet
Sunday evening, and they must be hived if
possible.</p>
<p>My bonnet was soon off and the bee-dress put
on, and in five minutes the bees were secured and
settled into a hive. We went to church and were
not even late, but—during the first prayer I heard
ominous sounds of a furious bee under my dress; it
was, fortunately, a partly transparent material, and
glancing furtively about I saw my little friend
under the skirt going up and down with an angry
biz-z-z. Only the pocket-hole could release him,
so I held that safely in my hand all through the
service, lest the congregation might suffer the
wrath of a furious bee, which in truth is no light
matter, for in blind fury it will rush at the first
person it meets and leave its sting in the face or
hand. Happily I succeeded in bringing the bee
home again, and resolved to avoid hiving swarms
before church-time in future.</p>
<p>You see under the drooping boughs of the fir-tree
yonder an old stone basin, well known to all
the birds in the neighbourhood, for there they always<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></SPAN></span>
find a supply of fresh water and food of various
kinds to suit all tastes. As it is opposite the
dining-room window, it is very interesting to see
a tame jay and sundry squirrels enjoying the acorns
which were collected for them last autumn and
stored up so as to keep the basin well supplied all
through the winter and spring, until other food
should be plentiful. Finches, robins, and sparrows
find wheat and crumbs to their taste, and take their
daily bath not without some squabbling as to who
shall have it first—a difficulty which is sometimes
settled by a portly blackbird appearing on the
scene and scattering the smaller folk, whilst he takes
his early tubbing and sends up showers of spray
in the process. Very pretty are the scenes on that
same stone basin when in early summer a mother
bird brings her little tribe of downy, chirping babes,
and feeds each little gaping mouth with some
suitable morsels from the store she finds there.</p>
<p>A sheaf of corn in winter is also a great boon
to the starved-out birdies, when snow has long
deprived them of their natural food, and the water
supply has to be often renewed on freezing days,
for many a bird dies in winter from lack of water,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></SPAN></span>
all its usual supplies being frozen. The tameness
of birds in severe weather is a touching sign of their
distress, and a mute appeal to us to help them.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"The fowls of heaven</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Tam'd by the cruel season, crowd around</span><br/>
<span class="i0">The winnowing store, and claim the little boon</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Which Providence assigns them."</span><br/></div>
</div>
<p>It is pleasant to think that they seldom appeal
in vain. "Crumbs for the birds" are scattered by
kindly little hands everywhere in winter, and in
many a house a pet sonsie little robin is a
cherished visitor, always welcome to his small
share of the good things of this life.</p>
<p>Our ramble might be indefinitely prolonged and
still be full of interest and instruction, but in
these simple remarks enough has been shown,
I trust, to lead many to <i>think</i> and <i>observe</i> closely
every, even the minutest, thing that catches their
attention whilst out for a ramble in lanes and
fields, even a microscopic moss upon an old wall
has been suggestive of many lovely thoughts, with
which I will conclude our ramble and this chapter.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></SPAN></span></p>
<table border="0" width="375" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"It was not all a tale of eld,</span><br/>
<span class="i0">That fairies, who their revels held</span><br/>
<span class="i0">By moonlight, in the greenwood shade</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Their beakers of the moss-cups made.</span><br/>
<span class="i0">The wondrous light which science burns</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Reveals those lovely jewelled urns!</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Fair lace-work spreads from roughest stems</span><br/>
<span class="i0">And shows each tuft a mine of gems.</span><br/>
<span class="i2">Voices from the silent sod,</span><br/>
<span class="i2">Speaking of the Perfect God.</span><br/></div>
<div class="stanza"><br/>
<span class="i0">Fringeless, or fringed, and fringed again,</span><br/>
<span class="i0">No single leaflet formed in vain;</span><br/>
<span class="i0">What wealth of heavenly wisdom lies</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Within one moss-cup's mysteries!</span><br/>
<span class="i0">And few may know what silvery net,</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Down in its mimic depths is set</span><br/>
<span class="i0">To catch the rarest dews that fall</span><br/>
<span class="i0">Upon the dry and barren wall.</span><br/>
<span class="i2">Voices from the silent sod,</span><br/>
<span class="i2">Speaking of the Perfect God."</span><br/></div>
<p class="right">L. N. R.</p>
</div>
</td></tr></table>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-063" id="illus-063"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p230.png" alt="SNAKE IN A CIRCLE" title="SNAKE IN A CIRCLE, End." width-obs="226" height-obs="237" /><br/></div>
<hr class="major" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>BOOKS FOR</p>
<p>RECREATION</p>
<p><span class="smcap">And</span> STUDY</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-064" id="illus-064"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p231.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="38" height-obs="32" /><br/></div>
<p class="right">
PUBLISHED BY<br/>
T. FISHER UNWIN,<br/>
11, PATERNOSTER<br/>
BUILDINGS, LONDON,<br/>
E.C. ....<br/></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>SIX-SHILLING NOVELS</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><i>In uniform green cloth, large crown 8vo., gilt tops</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-065" id="illus-065"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p232.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="41" height-obs="25" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub"><b>Effie Hetherington.</b> By <span class="smcap">Robert Buchanan</span>. Second Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>An Outcast of the Islands.</b> By <span class="smcap">Joseph Conrad</span>. Second Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Almayer's Folly.</b> By <span class="smcap">Joseph Conrad</span>. Second Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Ebbing of the Tide.</b> By <span class="smcap">Louis Becke</span>. Second Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>A First Fleet Family.</b> By <span class="smcap">Louis Becke</span> and <span class="smcap">Walter Jeffery</span>.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Paddy's Woman,</b> and Other Stories. By <span class="smcap">Humphrey James</span>.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Clara Hopgood.</b> By <span class="smcap">Mark Rutherford</span>. Second Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Tales of John Oliver Hobbes.</b> Portrait of the Author. Second
Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Stickit Minister</b> By <span class="smcap">S. R. Crockett</span>. Eleventh Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Lilac Sunbonnet</b> By <span class="smcap">S. R. Crockett</span>. Sixth Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Raiders.</b> By <span class="smcap">S. R. Crockett</span>. Eighth Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Grey Man.</b> By <span class="smcap">S. R. Crockett</span>.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>In a Man's Mind.</b> By <span class="smcap">J. R. Watson</span>.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>A Daughter of the Fen.</b> By <span class="smcap">J. T. Bealby</span>. Second Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Herb-Moon.</b> By <span class="smcap">John Oliver Hobbes</span>. Third Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Nancy Noon.</b> By <span class="smcap">Benjamin Swift</span>. Second Edition. With New
Preface.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Mr. Magnus.</b> By <span class="smcap">F. Reginald Statham</span>. Second Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland.</b> By <span class="smcap">Olive Schreiner</span>.
Frontispiece.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Pacific Tales.</b> By <span class="smcap">Louis Becke</span>. With Frontispiece Portrait of
the Author. Second Edition.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Mrs. Keith's Crime.</b> By Mrs. <span class="smcap">W. K. Clifford</span>. Sixth Edition.
With Portrait of Mrs. Keith by the Hon. <span class="smcap">John Collier</span>, and a New Preface by
the Author.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Hugh Wynne.</b> By Dr. S. <span class="smcap">Weir Mitchell</span>. With Frontispiece
Illustration.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Tormentor.</b> By <span class="smcap">Benjamin Swift</span>, Author of "Nancy Noon."</p>
<p class="pub"><b>Prisoners of Conscience.</b> By <span class="smcap">Amelia E. Barr</span>, Author of "Jan
Vedder's Wife." With 12 Illustrations.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Gods, some Mortals and Lord Wickenham.</b> New Edition.
By <span class="smcap">John Oliver Hobbes</span>.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Outlaws of the Marches.</b> By Lord <span class="smcap">Ernest Hamilton.</span>
Fully illustrated.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The School for Saints</b>: Part of the History of the Right Honourable
Robert Orange, M.P. By <span class="smcap">John Oliver Hobbes</span>, Author of "Sinner's Comedy,"
"Some Emotions and a Moral," "The Herb Moon," &c.</p>
<p class="pub"><b>The People of Clopton.</b> By <span class="smcap">George Bartram</span>.</p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>EFFIE HETHERINGTON</h2>
<p class="pub">
<span style="margin-left: 75%">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 60%">ROBERT BUCHANAN</span><br/></p>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth,</i> <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-066" id="illus-066"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p233.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="50" height-obs="34" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Robert Buchanan has written several
novels ... but among those which we know,
there is not one so nearly redeemed by its
ability and interest.... The girl is simply
odious; but Mr. Buchanan is a poet—it would
seem sometimes <i>malgré lui</i>, in this instance it is
<i>quand même</i>—and he dowers the worthless
Effie with a rugged, half-misanthropic, steadfast
lover, whose love, never rewarded, is proved by
as great a sacrifice as fact or fiction has ever
known, and who is almost as striking a figure as
Heathcliff in 'Wuthering Heights.'"—<i>World</i>.</p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub">I.</p>
</div>
<h3>AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS</h3>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="blockquot"><p class="pub">"Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (<i>vide</i> first part of notice),
'An Outcast of the Islands' is perhaps the finest piece of fiction that has been
published this year, as 'Almayer's Folly' was one of the finest that was published
in 1895.... Surely this is real romance—the romance that is real.
Space forbids anything but the merest recapitulation of the other living
realities of Mr. Conrad's invention—of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer,
the one-eyed Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla—all novel, all
authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad's quality. He
imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his individualities
and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in this East Indian
Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written; the present writer has
read and re-read his two books, and after putting this review aside for some
days to consider the discretion of it, the word still stands."—<i>Saturday Review.</i></p>
</div>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub">II.</p>
</div>
<h3>ALMAYER'S FOLLY</h3>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
<p class="center"><span style="margin-left: 1em">"<b>This startling, unique, splendid book.</b>"</span></p>
</div>
<div class="blockquot">
<p class="rightpub"><span style="margin-left: 3.5em"><span class="smcap">Mr. T. P. O'Connor</span>, M.P.</span></p>
</div>
<div class="blockquot"><p class="pub">"This is a decidedly powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks fresh
ground in fiction.... All the leading characters in the book—Almayer, his
wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter's native lover—are well drawn, and
the parting between father and daughter has a pathetic naturalness about it,
unspoiled by straining after effect. There are, too, some admirably graphic
passages in the book. The approach of a monsoon is most effectively
described.... The name of Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears
to us as if he might become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago."—<i><ins class="transcriber"
title="Transcriber's note: missing '.' added.">Spectator.</ins></i></p>
</div>
<hr class="minor" />
<h3>THE EBBING OF THE TIDE</h3>
<p class="centerpub">BY<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 10em">LOUIS BECKE</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6.5em">Author of "By Reef and Palm"</span><br/></p>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-067" id="illus-067"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p235.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="34" height-obs="30" /><br/></div>
<div class="blockquot"><p class="pub">"Mr. Louis Becke wields a powerful pen, with the additional advantage
that he waves it in unfrequented places, and summons up with it the elemental
passions of human nature.... It will be seen that Mr. Becke is somewhat
of the fleshly school, but with a pathos and power not given to the ordinary
professors of that school.... Altogether for those who like stirring stories
cast in strange scenes, this is a book to be read."—<i>National Observer.</i></p>
</div>
<h3>PACIFIC TALES</h3>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub">BY<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 10em">LOUIS BECKE</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6.5em">With a Portrait of the Author</span><br/></p>
</div>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition. Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-068" id="illus-068"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p235b.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="26" height-obs="25" /><br/></div>
<div class="blockquot"><p class="pub">"The appearance of a new book by Mr. Becke has become an event of note—and
very justly. No living author, if we except Mr. Kipling, has so amazing
a command of that unhackneyed vitality of phrase that most people call by
the name of realism. Whether it is scenery or character or incident that he
wishes to depict, the touch is ever so dramatic and vivid that the reader is
conscious of a picture and impression that has no parallel save in the records
of actual sight and memory."—<i>Westminster Gazette.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Another series of sketches of island life in the South Seas, not inferior to
those contained in 'By Reef and Palm.'"—<i>Speaker.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The book is well worth reading. The author knows what he is talking
about and has a keen eye for the picturesque."—<span class="smcap">G. B. Burgin</span> in <i>To-day</i>.</p>
<p class="pub">"A notable contribution to the romance of the South Seas."</p>
<p class="rightpub"><span class="smcap">T. P. O'Connor</span>, M.P., in <i>The Graphic</i>.</p>
</div>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>PADDY'S WOMAN</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">HUMPHREY JAMES</span><br/></p>
</div>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Crown 8vo.</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-069" id="illus-069"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p236.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="44" height-obs="27" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"Traits of the Celt of humble circumstances are copied
with keen appreciation and unsparing accuracy." <i>Scotsman.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"... They are full of indescribable charm and
pathos."—<i>Bradford Observer.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The outstanding merit of this series of stories is that
they are absolutely true to life ... the photographic
accuracy and minuteness displayed are really marvellous."</p>
<p class="pub"><i>Aberdeen Free Press.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"'Paddy's Woman and Other Stories' by Humphrey
James; a volume written in the familiar diction of the
Ulster people themselves, with <b>perfect realism and very
remarkable ability.... For genuine human nature
and human relations, and humour of an indescribable
kind, we are unable to cite a rival to this volume.</b>"</p>
<p class="pub"><i>The World.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"For a fine subtle piece of humour we are inclined to
think that '<b>A Glass of Whisky</b>' takes a lot of beating....
In short Mr. Humphrey James has given us a delightful
book, and one which does as much credit to his heart as to
his head. We shall look forward with a keen anticipation
to the next 'writings' by this shrewd, 'cliver,' and compassionate
young author."—<i>Bookselling.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>CLARA HOPGOOD</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">MARK RUTHERFORD</span><br/>
<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6.5em"><i>EDITED</i> BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">REUBEN SHAPCOTT</span><br/></p>
</div>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
<p class="centerpub">
(<i>The Third and Cheaper Edition is now ready, Crown 8vo.,</i><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 4.5em"><i>cloth</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b><ins class="transcriber"
title="Transcriber's note: printer's bold removed.">)</ins></span><br/></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-070" id="illus-070"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p237.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="39" height-obs="28" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"The writer who goes by the name of Mark Rutherford
is not the most popular novelist of his time by any means.
There are writers with names which that recluse genius
has never heard of, probably, whose stories give palpitations
to thousands of gentle souls, while his own are
quietly read by no more than as many hundreds. Yet his
publisher never announces a new story by the Author of
'Mark Rutherford's Autobiography,' and 'The Revolution
in Tanner's Lane,'—which we believe to be one of the
most remarkable bits of writing that these times can boast
of—without strongly exciting the interest of many who
know books as precious stones are known in Hatton
Garden.... 'Clara Hopgood' is entirely out of the
way of all existing schools of novel-writing.... Had
we to select a good illustration of 'Mark's way' as distinguished
from the way of modern storytellers in general,
we should point to the chapter in which Baruch visits his
son Benjamin in this narration. Nothing could be more
simple, nothing more perfect."—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<p style="text-indent: 0em; word-spacing: 0.35em; letter-spacing: 0.25em; font-weight: 400">
<span style="margin-left: 2em">A FIRST FLEET FAMILY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em">BEING A HITHERTO</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em">UNPUBLISHED NARRATIVE</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em">OF CERTAIN REMARKABLE</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em">ADVENTURES COMPILED</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em">FROM THE PAPERS OF</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em">SERGEANT WILLIAM</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 2em">DEW, OF THE MARINES</span><br/></p>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub">BY<br/>
LOUIS BECKE and WALTER JEFFERY<br/></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s</b>.</p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-071" id="illus-071"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p238.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="37" height-obs="29" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"As convincingly real and vivid as a narrative can
be."—<i>Sketch.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"No maker of plots could work out a better story of its
kind, nor balance it more neatly."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"A book which describes a set of characters varied and
so attractive as the more prominent figures in this romance
and a book so full of life, vicissitude, and peril, should be
welcomed by every discreet novel reader."—<i>Yorkshire Post.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"A very interesting tale, written in clear and vigorous
English."—<i>Globe.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The novel is a happy blend of truth and fiction, with a
purpose that will be appreciated by many readers; it has
also the most exciting elements of the tale of adventure."—<i>Morning Post.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>THE TALES OF JOHN OLIVER HOBBES</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="rightpub">
With a Frontispiece Portrait of the Author</p>
<p class="centerpub">
<i>Second Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-072" id="illus-072"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p239a.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="38" height-obs="22" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"The cleverness of them all is extraordinary."—<i>Guardian.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The volume proves how little and how great a thing it is to write a
'Pseudonym.' Four whole 'Pseudonyms' ... are easily contained
within its not extravagant limits, and these four little books have given
John Oliver Hobbes a recognized position as a master of epigram and
narrative comedy."—<i>St. James's Gazette.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"As her star has been sudden in its rise so may it stay long with us!
Some day she may give us something better than these tingling, pulsing,
mocking, epigrammatic morsels."—<i>Times.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"There are several literary ladies, of recent origin, who have tried
to come up to the society ideal; but John Oliver Hobbes is by far the
best writer of them all, by far the most capable artist in fiction....
She is clever enough for anything."—<i>Saturday Review.</i></p>
<hr class="mini" />
<h2>THE HERB MOON</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">JOHN OLIVER HOBBES</span></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Third Edition, Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-073" id="illus-073"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p239b.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="31" height-obs="21" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"The jaded reader who needs sauce for his literary appetite cannot
do better than buy 'The Herb Moon.'"—<i>Literary World.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"A book to hail with more than common pleasure. The epigrammatic
quality, the power of rapid analysis and brilliant presentation
are there, and added to these a less definable quality, only to be
described as charm.... 'The Herb Moon' is as clever as most of
its predecessors, and far less artificial."—<i>Athenæum.</i></p>
<h2>THE STICKIT MINISTER AND SOME COMMON MEN<br/></h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">S. R. CROCKETT</span></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Eleventh Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-074" id="illus-074"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p240a.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="36" height-obs="25" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"Here is one of the books which are at present coming singly and at long
intervals, like early swallows, to herald, it is to be hoped, a larger flight.
When the larger flight appears, the winter of our discontent will have passed,
and we shall be able to boast that the short story can make a home east as
well as west of the Atlantic. There is plenty of human nature—of the Scottish
variety, which is a very good variety—in 'The Stickit Minister' and its companion
stories; plenty of humour, too, of that dry, pawky kind which is a
monopoly of 'Caledonia, stern and wild'; and, most plentiful of all, a quiet
perception and reticent rendering of that underlying pathos of life which is to
be discovered, not in Scotland alone, but everywhere that a man is found who
can see with the heart and the imagination as well as the brain. Mr. Crockett
has given us a book that is not merely good, it is what his countrymen would
call 'by-ordinar' good,' which, being interpreted into a tongue understanded of
the southern herd, means that it is excellent, with a somewhat exceptional kind
of excellence."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<hr class="mini" />
<h2>THE LILAC SUN-BONNET</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">S. R. CROCKETT</span></p>
<p class="centerpub">
<i>Sixth Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-075" id="illus-075"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p240b.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="32" height-obs="23" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Crockett's 'Lilac Sun-Bonnet' 'needs no bush.' Here is a pretty love
tale, and the landscape and rural descriptions carry the exile back into the
Kingdom of Galloway. Here, indeed, is the scent of bog-myrtle and peat.
After inquiries among the fair, I learn that of all romances, they best love,
not 'sociology,' not 'theology,' still less, open manslaughter, for a motive, but,
just love's young dream, chapter after chapter. From Mr. Crockett they get
what they want, 'hot with,' as Thackeray admits that he liked it."</p>
<p class="rightpub">Mr. <span class="smcap">Andrew Lang</span> in <i>Longman's Magazine</i>.</p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>THE RAIDERS</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">S. R. CROCKETT</span></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Eighth Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-076" id="illus-076"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p241.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="42" height-obs="26" /><br/></div>
<p class="pub">"A thoroughly enjoyable novel, full of fresh, original, and
accurate pictures of life long gone by."—<i>Daily News.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"A strikingly realistic romance."—<i>Morning Post.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"A stirring story.... Mr. Crockett's style is charming. My
Baronite never knew how musical and picturesque is Scottish-English
till he read this book."—<i>Punch.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The youngsters have their Stevenson, their Barrie, and now
a third writer has entered the circle, S. R. Crockett, with a lively
and jolly book of adventures, which the paterfamilias pretends
to buy for his eldest son, but reads greedily himself and won't
let go till he has turned over the last page.... Out of such
historical elements and numberless local traditions the author
has put together an exciting tale of adventures on land and sea."
<i>Frankfurter Zeitung.</i></p>
<hr class="mini" />
<p class="centerpub"><i>SOME SCOTCH NOTICES.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Galloway folk should be proud to rank 'The Raiders' among
the classics of the district."—<i>Scotsman.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Crockett's 'The Raiders' is one of the great literary
successes of the season."—<i>Dundee Advertiser.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Crockett has achieved the distinction of having produced
the book of the season."—<i>Dumfries and Galloway Standard.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The story told in it is, as a story, nearly perfect."
<i>Aberdeen Daily Free Press.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"'The Raiders' is one of the most brilliant efforts of recent
fiction."—<i>Kirkcudbrightshire Advertiser.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>THE GREY MAN</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">S. R. CROCKETT</span></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
<p class="blockquot" style="text-indent: 0em;">
<i>Also, an Edition de Luxe, with 26 Drawings by</i><br/>
<span class="smcap">Seymour Lucas, R.A.</span>, <i>limited to 250 copies, signed</i><br/>
<i>by Author. Crown 4to., cloth gilt</i>, <b>21s.</b> <i>net</i>.<br/></p>
</div>
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<p class="pub">"It has nearly all the qualities which go to make a book
of the first-class. Before you have read twenty pages you
know that you are reading a classic."—<i>Literary World.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"All of that vast and increasing host of readers who
prefer the novel of action to any other form of fiction
should, nay, indeed, must, make a point of reading this
exceedingly fine example of its class."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"With such passages as these [referring to quotations],
glowing with tender passion, or murky with horror,
even the most insatiate lover of romance may feel that
Mr. Crockett has given him good measure, well pressed
down and running over."—<i>Daily Telegraph.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>A DAUGHTER OF THE<br/>FEN</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">J. T. BEALBY</span><br/></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
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<p class="pub">"It will deserve notice at the hands of such as are interested in the
ways and manner of living of a curious race that has ceased to be."
<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"For a first book 'A Daughter of the Fen' is full of promise."—<i>Academy.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"This book deserves to be read for its extremely interesting account of
life in the Fens and for its splendid character study of Mme. Dykereave."
<i>Star.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Deserves high praise."—<i>Scotsman.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"It is an able, interesting ... an exciting book, and is well worth
reading. And when once taken up it will be difficult to lay it down."
<i>Westminster Gazette.</i></p>
<hr class="mini" />
<h2>IN A MAN'S MIND</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6em">JOHN REAY WATSON</span><br/></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
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<p class="pub">"We regard the book as well worth the effort of reading."—<i>British
Review.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The book is clever, very clever."—<i>Dundee Advertiser.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The power and pathos of the book are undeniable."—<i>Liverpool Post.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"It is a book of some promise."—<i>Newsagent.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Watson has hardly a rival among Australian writers, past or
present. There is real power in the book—power of insight, power of
reflection, power of analysis, power of presentation.... 'Tis a very
well made book—not a set of independent episodes strung on the
thread of a name or two, but closely interwoven to the climax."
<i>Sydney Bulletin.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"There is behind it all a power of drawing human nature that in
time arrests the attention."—<i>Athenæum.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>NANCY NOON</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7.5em">BENJAMIN SWIFT</span><br/></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition.</i> <i>Cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
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<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><b>Some Reviews on the First Edition.</b></p>
</div>
<p class="pub">"'Nancy Noon' is perhaps the strongest book of the year, certainly by far
the strongest book which has been published by any new writer.... <ins class="transcriber"
title="Transcriber's note: missing period added">Mr.</ins>
Swift contrives to keep his book from end to end real, passionate, even intense.</p>
<p class="pub">... If Mr. Meredith had never written, one would have predicted, with the
utmost confidence, a great future for Mr. Benjamin Swift, and even as it is I
have hopes."—<i>Sketch.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Certainly a promising first effort."—<i>Whitehall Review.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"If 'Nancy Noon' be Mr. Swift's first book, it is a success of an uncommon
kind."—<i>Dundee Advertiser.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"'Nancy Noon' is one of the most remarkable novels of the year, and the
author, avowedly a beginner, has succeeded in gaining a high position in the
ranks of contemporary writers.... All his characters are delightful. In the
heat of sensational incidents or droll scenes we stumble on observations that
set us reflecting, and but for an occasional roughness of style—elliptical,
Carlyle mannerisms—the whole is admirably written."—<i>Westminster Gazette.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Swift has the creative touch and a spark of genius."—<i>Manchester
Guardian.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Swift has held us interested from the first to the last page of his
novel."—<i>World.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The writer of 'Nancy Noon' has succeeded in presenting a powerfully
written and thoroughly interesting story."—<i>Scotsman.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"We are bound to admit that the story interested us all through, that it
absorbed us towards the end, and that not until the last page had been read
did we find it possible to lay the book down."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"It is a very strong book, very vividly coloured, very fascinating in its style,
very compelling in its claim on the attention, and not at all likely to be soon
forgotten."—<i>British Weekly.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"A clever book.... The situations and ensuing complications are dramatic,
and are handled with originality and daring throughout."—<i>Daily News.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Benjamin Swift has written a vastly entertaining book."—<i>Academy.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>MR. MAGNUS</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 5.5em">F. REGINALD STATHAM</span><br/></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Second Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
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<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><b>Some Press Opinions on the First Edition.</b></p>
</div>
<p class="pub">"One of the most powerful and vividly written novels of the
day."—<i>Nottingham Guardian.</i><br/>
"A grim, terrible, and convincing picture."—<i>New Age.</i><br/>
"Very impressive."—<i>Saturday Review.</i><br/>
"Distinctly readable."—<i>Speaker.</i><br/>
"A remarkable book."
<i>Standard.</i><br/>
"Full of incident."—<i>Liverpool Mercury.</i><br/>
"One of the most important and timely books ever written."
<i>Newcastle Daily Mercury.</i><br/>
"A vivid and stirring narrative."—<i>Globe.</i><br/>
"An exceedingly clever and remarkable production."—<i>World.</i><br/>
"A book to be read."—<i>Newsagent.</i><br/>
"A terrible picture."—<i>Sheffield Independent.</i><br/>
"One of the best stories lately published."—<i>Echo.</i><br/>
"Worth reading."—<i>Guardian.</i> "A sprightly book."—<i>Punch.</i><br/>
"The story is very much brought up to date."—<i>Times.</i><br/>
"Vivid and convincing."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i><br/>
"The story is good and well told."—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i><br/>
"Ought to be immensely popular."—<i>Reynolds' Weekly Newspaper.</i><br/>
"A most readable story."—<i>Glasgow Herald.</i><br/>
"A brilliant piece of work."—<i>Daily Telegraph.</i><br/>
"The story should make its mark."—<i>Bookseller.</i><br/>
"Admirably written."—<i>Sheffield Daily Telegraph.</i><br/>
"The more widely it is read the better."—<i>Manchester Guardian.</i><br/>
"Will find many appreciative readers."—<i>Aberdeen Free Press.</i><br/>
"Exciting reading."—<i>Daily Mail.</i><br/>
"Can be heartily recommended."—<i>Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper.</i><br/>
"A well-written and capable story."—<i>People.</i><br/>
"Well written."—<i>Literary World.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>TROOPER PETER HALKET<br/>OF MASHONALAND</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7em">OLIVE SCHREINER</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7em">Author of "Dreams,"</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 7em">"Real Life and Dream Life," &c.</span><br/></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
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<p class="pub">"We advise our readers to purchase and read Olive
Schreiner's new book 'Trooper Peter Halket of Mashonaland.'
Miss Schreiner is one of the few magicians of
modern English literature, and she has used the great
moral, as well as the great literary, force of her style to
great effect."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The story is one that is certain to be widely read, and
it is well that it should be so, especially at this moment;
it grips the heart and haunts the imagination. To have
written such a book is to render a supreme service, for
it is as well to know what the rough work means of
subjugating inferior races."—<i>Daily News.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Some of the imaginative passages are very fine....
The book is powerfully written."—<i>Scotsman.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Is well and impressively written."—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>MRS. KEITH'S CRIME</h2>
<div class='center'>
<p class="centerpub"><span style="margin-left: 6.5em">BY</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6.5em">MRS. W. K. CLIFFORD</span><br/>
<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6.5em">With a Portrait of Mrs. Keith by the</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 6.5em">Hon. John Collier.</span><br/></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Sixth Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo., cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
</div>
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<p class="pub">"Is certainly the strongest book that Mrs. W. K.
Clifford has given to the public. It is probably too the
most popular."—<i>World.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"It is charmingly told."—<i>Literary World.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"A novel of extraordinary dramatic force, and it will
doubtless be widely read in its present very cheap and
attractive form."—<i>Star.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Mrs. Clifford's remarkable tale."—<i>Athenæum.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Will prove a healthy tonic to readers who have
recently been taking a course of shilling shocker mental
medicine.... There are many beautiful womanly
touches throughout the pages of this interesting volume,
and it can be safely recommended to readers old and
young."—<i>Aberdeen Free Press.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>SOME 3/6 NOVELS</h2>
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<p class="centerpub">Uniform Edition of <span class="smcap">Mark Rutherford's</span> works. Edited by <span class="smcap">Reuben
Shapcott</span>. Crown 8vo., cloth.</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<col style="width:50%;" />
<col style="width:50%;" />
<tbody valign="top">
<tr><td><b>The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford</b>. Fifth Edition.</td><td><b>The Revolution in Tanner's Lane</b></td>
</tr>
<tr><td><b>Mark Rutherford's Deliverance.</b> New Edition.</td><td><b>Catharine Furze:</b> A Novel. By <span class="smcap">Mark Rutherford</span>. Fourth Edition.</td></tr>
<tr><td><b>Miriam's Schooling,</b> and other Papers. By <span class="smcap">Mark Rutherford</span>.
<span style="margin-left: 1em">With Frontispiece by <span class="smcap">Walter Crane</span>. Second Edition.</span>
</td><td><b>Clara Hopgood.</b> By <span class="smcap">Mark Rutherford</span>.</td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p class="pub">"These writings are certainly not to be lightly dismissed, bearing as they do the
impress of a mind which, although limited in range and sympathies, is decidedly
original."—<i>Times.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Statement of Stella Maberly.</b> By <span class="smcap">F. Anstey</span>, Author of
"Vice Versâ." Crown 8vo, cloth.<br/>
"It is certainly a strange and striking story."—<i>Athenæum.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>Ginette's Happiness.</b> Being a translation by <span class="smcap">Ralph Derechef</span> of
"Le Bonheur de Ginette." Crown 8vo, cloth.<br/>
"Pretty and gracefully told."—<i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>Silent Gods and Sun-Steeped Lands.</b> By <span class="smcap">R. W. Frazer</span>
Second Edition. With 4 full-page Illustrations by <span class="smcap">A. D. McCormick</span> and a Photogravure
Frontispiece. Small crown 8vo., cloth.<br/>
"Mr. Frazer writes powerfully and well, and seems to have an intimate acquaintance
with the sun-steeped land, and the strange beings who people it."—<i>Glasgow Herald.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>Paul Heinsius.</b> By <span class="smcap">Cora Lyster</span>. Crown 8vo., cloth..<br/>
"This is an extremely clever and altogether admirable, but not altogether unkind
anatomisation of Teutonic character."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>My Bagdad.</b> By <span class="smcap">Elliott Dickson</span>. Illustrated. 8vo., cloth..<br/>
"Related with a refreshing simplicity that is certain to approve itself to readers."—<i>Bookseller.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>Silk of the Kine.</b> By <span class="smcap">L. McManus</span> (C. MacGuire), Author of
"Amabel: A Military Romance." Crown 8vo., cloth..<br/>
"We have read 'The Silk of the Kine,' from the first page to the last, without
missing a single word, and we sighed regretfully when Mr. McManus brought the
adventures of Margery Ny Guire and Piers Ottley to a close."—<i>Literary World.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>A Pot of Honey.</b> By <span class="smcap">Susan Christian</span>. Crown 8vo., cloth.<br/>
"The book is the outcome of a clever mind."—<i>Athenæum.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>Liza of Lambeth.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. Somerset Maugham</span>. Crown 8vo., cloth.<br/>
"An interesting story of life and character in the Surrey-side slums, presented with
a great deal of sympathetic humour."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<p class="pub"><b>The Twilight Reef</b>, and other Stories. By <span class="smcap">Herbert C. McIlwain</span>.
Crown 8vo., cloth.</p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>THE HALF-CROWN SERIES</h2>
<p class="centerpub"> + + + </p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Each Demy 12mo., cloth.</i></p>
<table width="75%" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<col style="width:50%;" />
<col style="width:50%;" />
<tbody valign="top">
<tr><td>1. <b>A Gender in Satan.</b> By <span class="smcap">Rita</span>.</td><td>5. <b>Dreams.</b> By <span class="smcap">Olive Schreiner.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td>2. <b>The Making of Mary.</b> By <span class="smcap">Jean M. McIlwraith</span>.</td><td>6. <b>The Honour of the Flag.</b> By <span class="smcap">Clark Russell</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>3. <b>Diana's Hunting.</b> By <span class="smcap">Robert Buchanan</span>.</td><td>7. <b>Le Selve.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ouida</span>. 2nd Edition.</td></tr>
<tr><td>4. <b>Sir Quixote of the Moors.</b> By <span class="smcap">John Buchan</span>.</td><td>8. <b>An Altruist.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ouida</span>. 2nd Edition.</td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<hr class="mini" />
<h2>THE CAMEO SERIES</h2>
<p class="centerpub"> + + + </p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Demy 12mo., half-bound, paper boards, price</i> <b>3s. 6d.</b></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Vols. 14-17</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b> <i>net</i>.</p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Also, an Edition de Luxe, limited to 30 copies, printed on Japan paper.</i></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Prices on application.</i></p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<col style="width:50%;" />
<col style="width:50%;" />
<tbody valign="top">
<tr><td>1. <b>The Lady from the Sea.</b> By
<span class="smcap">Henrik Ibsen</span>. Translated by <span class="smcap">Eleanor
Marx Aveling</span>. Second Edition.
Portrait.</td>
<td>11. <b>The Love Songs of Robert Burns.</b>
Selected and Edited, with Introduction,
by Sir <span class="smcap">George Douglas</span>, Bart.
With Front. Portrait.</td></tr>
<tr><td>4. <b>Iphigenia in Delphi</b>, with some
Translations from the Greek. By
<span class="smcap">Richard Garnett</span>, LL.D. Frontispiece.</td>
<td>12. <b>Love Songs of Ireland.</b> Collected
and Edited by <span class="smcap">Katherine Tynan</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>5. <b>Mireio</b>: A Provençal Poem.
By <span class="smcap">Frederic Mistral</span>. Translated
by <span class="smcap">H. W. Preston</span>. Frontispiece by
<span class="smcap">Joseph Pennell</span>.</td>
<td>13. <b>Retrospect</b>, and other Poems.
By <span class="smcap">A. Mary F. Robinson</span> (Mme.
<span class="smcap">Darmesteter</span>), Author of "An Italian
Garden," &c.</td></tr>
<tr><td>6. <b>Lyrics.</b> Selected from the
Works of A. <span class="smcap">Mary F. Robinson</span>
(Mme. <span class="smcap">James Darmesteter</span>). Frontispiece.</td>
<td>14. <b>Brand</b>: A Dramatic Poem.
By <span class="smcap">Henrik Ibsen</span>. Translated by <span class="smcap">F.
Edmund Garrett</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>7. <b>A Minor Poet.</b> By <span class="smcap">Amy Levy</span>.
With Portrait. Second Edition.</td>
<td>15. <b>The Son of Don Juan.</b> By
<span class="smcap">Don José Echegaray</span>. Translated
into English, with biographical introduction,
by <span class="smcap">James Graham</span>. With
Etched Portrait of the Author by <span class="smcap">Don
B. Maura</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>8. <b>Concerning Cats</b>: A Book of
Verses by many Authors. Edited by
<span class="smcap">Graham R. Thompson</span>. Illustrated.</td>
<td>16. <b>Mariana.</b> By <span class="smcap">Don José
Echegaray</span>. Translated into English
by <span class="smcap">James Graham</span>. With a Photogravure
of a recent Portrait of the
Author.</td></tr>
<tr><td>9. <b>A Chaplet from the Greek Anthology.</b>
By <span class="smcap">Richard Garnett</span>, LL.D.</td>
<td>17. <b>Flamma Vestalis</b>, and other
Poems. By <span class="smcap">Eugene Mason</span>. Frontispiece
after Sir <span class="smcap">Edward Burne-Jones</span>.</td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>THE MERMAID SERIES</h2>
<p class="rightpub"><b>The Best Plays of the Old Dramatists.
Literal Reproductions of the Old Testament.</b></p>
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<p class="centerpub"><i>Post 8vo., each Volume containing about 500 pages, and an etched
Frontispiece, cloth</i>, <b>3s. 6d.</b> <i>each</i>.</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<col style="width:50%;" />
<col style="width:50%;" />
<tbody valign="top">
<tr><td>
1. <b>The Best Plays of Christopher
Marlowe.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">Havelock
Ellis</span>, and containing a General
Introduction to the Series by <span class="smcap">John
Addington Symonds</span>.</td><td>
12. <b>The Best Plays of Webster
Tourneur.</b> Introduction by <span class="smcap">J.
Addington Symonds</span>.
</td></tr>
<tr><td>
2. <b>The Best Plays of Thomas Otway.</b>
Introduction by the Hon.
<span class="smcap">Roden Noel</span>.</td><td>
13 and 14. <b>The Best Plays of
Thomas Hiddleton.</b> Introduction
by <span class="smcap">Algernon Charles Swinburn</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>
3. <b>The Best Plays of John Ford.</b>—Edited
by <span class="smcap">Havelock Ellis</span>.</td><td>
15. <b>The Best Plays of James Stanley.</b>
Introduction by <span class="smcap">Edward
Gosse</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>
4 and 5. <b>The Best Plays of Thomas
Massinger.</b> Essay and Notes by
<span class="smcap">Arthur Symons</span>.</td><td>
16. <b>The Best Plays of Thomas
Dekker.</b> Notes by <span class="smcap">Ernest Rhys</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>
6. <b>The Best Plays of Thomas Heywood.</b>
Edited by <span class="smcap">A. W. Verity</span>.
Introduction by <span class="smcap">J. A. Symonds</span>.</td><td>
17, 19, and 20. <b>The Best Plays of
Ben Jonson,</b> Vol. I. edited, with
Introduction and Notes, by <span class="smcap">Brinsley
Nicholson</span> and <span class="smcap">C. H. Hereford</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>
7. <b>The Complete Plays of William
Wycherley.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">W. C.
Ward</span>.</td><td>
18. <b>The Complete Plays of Richard
Steele.</b> Edited, with Introduction
and Notes, by <span class="smcap">G. A. Aitkeen</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>
8. <b>Nero</b>, and other Plays. Edited
by <span class="smcap">H. P. Horne, Arthur Symons,
A. W. Verity</span>, and <span class="smcap">H. Ellis</span>.</td><td>
21. <b>The Best Plays of George Chapman.</b>
Edited by <span class="smcap">William Lyon
Phelps</span>, Instructor of English Literature
at Yale College.</td></tr>
<tr><td>
9 and 10. <b>The Best Plays of Beaumont
and Fletcher.</b> Introduction
by <span class="smcap">J. St. Loe Strachey</span>.</td><td>
22. <b>The Select Plays of Sir John
Vanbrugh.</b> Edited, with an introduction
and Notes, by <span class="smcap">A. E. H.
Swaen</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>
11. <b>The Complete Plays of William
Congreve.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">Alex. C.
Ewald</span>.</td><td> </td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<hr class="mini" />
<p class="centerpub"><i>PRESS OPINIONS.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Even the professed scholar with a good library at his command will find
texts here not otherwise easily accessible; while the humbler student of slender
resources, who knows the bitterness of not being able to possess himself of the treasure
stored in expensive folios or quartos long out of print, will assuredly rise up and thank
Mr. Unwin."—<i>St. James's Gazette.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Resumed under good auspices."—<i>Saturday Review.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The issue is as good as it could be."—<i>British Weekly.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"At once scholarly and interesting."—<i>Leeds Mercury.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>LITTLE NOVELS</h2>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-086" id="illus-086"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p251.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="68" height-obs="27" /><br/></div>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Demy 8vo., printed in bold type, paper covers,</i> <b>6d.</b>; <i>cloth</i>, <b>1s.</b></p>
<p class="pub">
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">1. <b>The World is Round.</b> By <span class="smcap">Louise Mack</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">2. <b>No Place for Repentance.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ellen F. Pinsent</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">3. <b>The Problem of Prejudice.</b> By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Vere Campbell</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">4. <b>Margaret Grey.</b> By <span class="smcap">H. Barton Baker</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">5. <b>A Painter's Honeymoon.</b> By <span class="smcap">Mildred Shenstone</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">6. <b>The Bond of Blood.</b> By <span class="smcap">R. E. Forrest</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">7. <b>A Slight Indiscretion.</b> By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Edward Cartwright</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">8. <b>A Comedy of Three.</b> By <span class="smcap">Newton Sanders</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">9. <b>Passports.</b> By <span class="smcap">I. J. Armstrong</span>.</span><br/>
10. <b>A Noble Haul.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. Clark Russell</span>.<br/>
11. <b>On the Gogmagogs.</b> By <span class="smcap">Alice Dumillo</span>.<br/></p>
<hr class="mini" />
<p class="centerpub"><i>PRESS NOTICES.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Novel sets are many, but Mr. Fisher Unwin has begun a new one that for prettiness,
type and cheapness will take front rank.... These little novels, which are very
prettily bound for a shilling, and in paper at sixpence each, will—if we mistake not—equal
the 'Pseudonyms' in popularity."—<i>Vanity Fair.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Mr. Unwin's newest series of 'Little Novels,' printed in strong black type on
pleasant paper.... promises to be as good, if not better than any of the preceding
ones.... The first book in the series is an extremely clever and original story of
Australian society."—<i>Guardian.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Are readable.... They promise well for the success of the series they begin."
<i>Scotsman.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The 'Little Novels' series starts well with this Australian story ('The World is
Round').... Miss Mack's account of Sydney life is vivacious.... The two
women she describes are brought before us with ability. Much of the dialogue, and
certainly a letter from the Bush, deserves praise."—<i>Glasgow Herald.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"If Mr. Fisher Unwin's 'Little Novels' series produces many works of the quintessential
power of 'No Place for Repentance,' it will outweigh in all but bulk whole shelves of
Mudie's fiction."—<i>Illustrated London News.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"We do not apologise for telling the story of this little book, 'The Bond of Blood,'
and giving long extracts from it. It is worth reading even when one knows all that is
coming; for it is excellently told, with concentrated force, great simplicity, and a very
remarkable attention to illustrative detail."—<i>Spectator.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"A cheap and excellent series."—<i>St. James's Budget.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Well bound, well printed, and exceptionally low in price."—<i>Glasgow Herald.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>The CHILDREN'S LIBRARY</h2>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-087" id="illus-087"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p252.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="56" height-obs="15" /><br/></div>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Illustrated. Post 8vo., pinafore cloth binding, floral edges</i>,
<b>2s 6d.</b> <i>each</i>.</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<col style="width:50%;" />
<col style="width:50%;" />
<tbody valign="top">
<tr><td>
1. <b>The Brown Owl.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ford H.
Hueffer</span>. Illustrated by <span class="smcap">Madox
Brown</span>.</td><td>
12. <b>Nutcracker and Mouse King</b>
and other Stories. By <span class="smcap">E. T. A.
Hoffmann</span>. Translated from the
German by <span class="smcap">Ascott R. Hope</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>2. <b>The China Cup.</b> By <span class="smcap">Felix
Volkhovsky</span>. Illustrated by
<span class="smcap">Malischeff</span>.</td><td>
13. <b>Once upon a Time</b>: Fairy
Tales. Translated from the Italian
by <span class="smcap">Luigi Capuana</span>. With Illustrations
by <span class="smcap">C. Mazzanti</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>3. <b>Stories from Fairyland.</b> By
<span class="smcap">Georges Drosines</span>. Illustrated by
<span class="smcap">Thos. Riley</span>.</td><td>
14. <b>The Pentamerone</b>; or, The
Story of Stories. By <span class="smcap">Giambattista
Basile</span>. Translated from the Neapolitan
by <span class="smcap">John Edward Taylor</span>.
</td></tr>
<tr><td>4. <b>The Story of a Puppet.</b> By
<span class="smcap">C. Cullodi</span>. Translated from the
Italian by <span class="smcap">M. A. Murray</span>. Illustrated
by <span class="smcap">G. Mazzanti</span>.</td><td>
New Edition, revised and edited by
<span class="smcap">Helen Zimmern</span>. Illustrated by
<span class="smcap">George Cruikshank</span>.
</td></tr>
<tr><td>5. <b>The Little Princess.</b> By <span class="smcap">Lina
Eckenstein</span>. Illustrated by <span class="smcap">Dudley
Heath</span>.</td><td>
15. <b>Finnish Legends.</b> Adapted by
<span class="smcap">R. Eivind</span>. Illustrated from the
Finnish Text.</td></tr>
<tr><td>6. <b>Tales from the Mabinogier.</b>
By <span class="smcap">Meta Williams</span>.</td><td>
16. <b>The Pope's Mule</b>, and other
Stories. By <span class="smcap">Alphonse Daudet</span>.
Translated by <span class="smcap">A. D. Beavington-Atkinson</span>
and <span class="smcap">D. Havers</span>. Illustrated
by <span class="smcap">Ethel K. Martyn</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>7. <b>Irish Fairy Tales.</b> Edited by
<span class="smcap">W. B. Yeats</span>. Illustrated by <span class="smcap">Jack B.
Yeats</span>.</td><td>
</td></tr>
<tr><td>8. <b>An Enchanted Garden.</b> By
Mrs. <span class="smcap">Molesworth</span>. Illustrated by
<span class="smcap">J. W. Henessey</span>.</td><td>
17. <b>The Little Glass Man</b>, and
other Stories. Translated from the
German of <span class="smcap">Wilhelm Hauffman</span>.
Illustrated by <span class="smcap">James Pryde</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>9. <b>La Belle Nivernaise.</b> By
<span class="smcap">Alphonse Daudet</span>. Illustrated by
<span class="smcap">Montegut</span>.</td><td>
18. <b>Robinson Crusoe.</b> By <span class="smcap">Daniel
Defoe</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>10. <b>The Feather.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ford H.
Hueffer</span>. Frontispiece by <span class="smcap">Madox
Brown</span>.</td><td>
19. <b>The Magic Oak Tree</b>, and
other Fairy Stories. By <span class="smcap">Knatchbull
Hugessen</span> (Lord <span class="smcap">Brabourne</span>)
Author of "Prince Mangold,"
"Queer Folk," &c.</td></tr>
<tr><td>11. <b>Finn and His Companions.</b> By
<span class="smcap">Standish O'Grady</span>, Author of
"Red Hugh's Captivity," &c., Illustrated
by <span class="smcap">J. B. Yeats</span>.</td><td>
20. <b>Pax and Carlino.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ernest
Beckman</span>.</td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<hr class="mini" />
<p class="centerpub"><i>SOME PRESS NOTICES.</i></p>
<p class="pub">
"Happy children who are to own books as pretty and portable as this is." <i>Saturday Review.</i><br/>
"The delightful 'Children's Library.'"—<i>National Observer.</i><br/>
"The binding and printing are simply exquisite."—<i>Vanity Fair.</i><br/>
"What a dainty little blue book!"—<i>Whitehall Review.</i><br/>
"Prettily got up."—<i>Times.</i><br/>
"Fascinating in appearance."—<i>Athenæum.</i><br/>
"Very daintily printed and bound."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i><br/>
"One of the prettiest books ever trusted to a child's hand."—<i>Queen.</i><br/>
"Altogether agreeable to the eye."—<i>Globe.</i><br/>
"Exquisite and dainty."—<i>British Weekly.</i><br/>
"Very dainty and unique."—<i>Review of Reviews.</i><br/>
"All the books are delightfully illustrated."—<i>Bookseller.</i><br/>
"With every advantage that a dainty binding excellent paper, and admirable printing
can bestow."—<i>Guardian.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2><span class="smcap">The</span> AUTONYM LIBRARY</h2>
<p class="centerpub">(Uniform in style and price with the "Pseudonym Library.")</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="illus-088" id="illus-088"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-p253.png" alt="" title="" width-obs="31" height-obs="24" /><br/></div>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Paper</i>, <b>1s. 6d.</b> <i>each</i>; <i>cloth</i>, <b>2s.</b> <i>each</i>.</p>
<p class="pub">
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">1. <b>The Upper Berth.</b> By <span class="smcap">F. Marion Crawford</span>. Fourth Edition.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">2. <b>Mad Sir Uchtred of the Hills.</b> By <span class="smcap">S. R. Crockett</span>. Third Edition.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">3. <b>By Reef and Palm.</b> By <span class="smcap">Louis Becke</span>. Third Edition.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">4. <b>The Play-Actress.</b> By <span class="smcap">S. R. Crockett</span>. Fifth Edition.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">5. <b>A Bachelor Maid.</b> By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Burton Harrison</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">6. <b>Miserrima.</b> By <span class="smcap">G. W. T. Omond</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">7. <b>The Two Strangers.</b> By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Oliphant</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">8. <b>Another Wicked Woman.</b> By <span class="smcap">G. S. Grant-Forbes</span>.</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">9. <b>The Spectre of Strathannan.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. E. Norris</span>.</span><br/>
10. <b>Kafir Stories.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. C. Scully</span>.<br/>
11. <b>Molly Darling!</b> And other Stories. By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Hungerford</span>.<br/>
12. <b>A Game of Consequences.</b> By <span class="smcap">Albert Kinross</span>.<br/>
13. <b>Sleeping Fires.</b> By <span class="smcap">George Gissing</span>.<br/>
14. <b>The Red Star.</b> By <span class="smcap">L. McManus</span>.<br/>
15. <b>A Marriage by Capture.</b> By <span class="smcap">Robert Buchanan</span>.<br/>
16. <b>Leaves from the Life of an Eminent Fossil.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. Dutton Burrard</span>.<br/>
17. <b>An Impossible Person.</b> By <span class="smcap">Constance Cotterell</span>.<br/>
18. <b>Which is Absurd.</b> By <span class="smcap">Cosmo Hamilton</span>.<br/></p>
<hr class="mini" />
<p class="centerpub"><i>PRESS NOTICES.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Very dainty and pleasing in appearance."—<i>Glasgow Herald.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"Well printed and nicely got up."—<i>Queen.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"The volumes promise to be as handy in shape and size as those of the
original series; the printing is excellent, the paper is good, and the external
appearance is neat and attractive."—<i>Athenæum.</i></p>
<p class="pub">"If 'The Autonym Library' keeps up to the pitch of excellence attained by
the first volume its success is assured."—<i>Speaker.</i></p>
<hr class="minor" />
<h2>THE STORY OF<br/>THE NATIONS<br/></h2>
<p class="centerpub">A SERIES OF POPULAR HISTORIES.</p>
<p class="pub"><i>Each Volume is furnished with Maps, Illustrations, and Index. Large
Crown 8vo., fancy cloth, gold lettered, or Library Edition, dark cloth, burnished
red top,</i> <b>5s.</b> <i>each.—Or may be had in half Persian, cloth sides, gilt tops;</i></p>
<p class="centerpub"><i>Price on Application.</i></p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<col style="width:50%;" />
<col style="width:50%;" />
<tbody valign="top">
<tr><td>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em">1. <b>Rome.</b> By <span class="smcap">Arthur Gilman</span>, M.A.</span></td><td>
25. <b>Scotland,</b> By <span class="smcap">John Mackintosh</span>, LL.D.</td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 0.5em">2. <b>The Jews.</b> By Professor <span class="smcap">J. K. Hosmer</span>.</span></td><td>
26. <b>Switzerland.</b> By <span class="smcap">R. Stead</span> and <span class="smcap">Lina Hug</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 0.5em">3. <b>Germany.</b> By the Rev. <span class="smcap">S. Baring-Gould</span>.</span></td><td>
27. <b>Mexico.</b> By <span class="smcap">Susan Hale</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 0.5em">4. <b>Carthage.</b> By Professor <span class="smcap">Alfred J. Church</span>.</span></td><td>
28. <b>Portugal.</b> By <span class="smcap">H. Morse Stephens</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 0.5em">5. <b>Alexander's Empire.</b> By Prof. <span class="smcap">J. P. Mahaffy</span>.</span></td><td>
29. <b>The Normans.</b> By <span class="smcap">Sarah Orne Jewett</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 0.5em">6. <b>The Moors In Spain.</b> By <span class="smcap">Stanley Lane-Poole</span>.</span></td><td>
30. <b>The Byzantine Empire.</b> By <span class="smcap">C. W. C. Oman</span>, M.A.</td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 0.5em">7. <b>Ancient Egypt.</b> By Prof. <span class="smcap">George Rawlinson</span>.</span></td><td>
31. <b>Sicily: Phoenician, Greek and Roman.</b> By the late <span class="smcap">E. A. Freeman</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 0.5em">8. <b>Hungary.</b> By Prof. <span class="smcap">Arminius Vambery</span>.</span></td><td>
32. <b>The Tuscan and Genoa Republics.</b> By <span class="smcap">Bella Duffy</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td><span style="margin-left: 0.5em">9. <b>The Saracens.</b> By <span class="smcap">Arthur Gilman</span>, M.A.</span></td><td>
33. <b>Poland.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. R. Morfill</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>10. <b>Ireland.</b> By the Hon. <span class="smcap">Emily Lawless</span>.</td><td>
34. <b>Parthia.</b> By Prof. <span class="smcap">George Rawlinson</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>11. <b>Chaldea.</b> By <span class="smcap">Zenaide A. Ragozin</span>.</td><td>
35. <b>The Australian Commonwealth.</b> By <span class="smcap">Greville Tregarthen</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>12. <b>The Goths.</b> By <span class="smcap">Henry Bradley</span>.</td><td>
36. <b>Spain.</b> By <span class="smcap">H. E. Watts</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>13. <b>Assyria.</b> By <span class="smcap">Zenaide A. Ragozin</span>.</td><td>
37. <b>Japan.</b> By <span class="smcap">David Murray</span>, Ph.D.</td></tr>
<tr><td>14. <b>Turkey.</b> By <span class="smcap">Stanley Lane-Poole</span>.</td><td>
38. <b>South Africa.</b> By <span class="smcap">George M. Theal</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>15. <b>Holland.</b> By Professor <span class="smcap">J. E. Thorold Rogers</span>.</td><td>
39. <b>Venice.</b> By the Hon. <span class="smcap">Alethea Wiel</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>16. <b>Mediæval France.</b> By <span class="smcap">Gustave Masson</span>.</td><td>
40. <b>The Crusades</b>: The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. By <span class="smcap">T. A. Archer</span> and <span class="smcap">Charles L. Kingsford</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>17. <b>Persia.</b> By <span class="smcap">S. G. W. Benjamin</span>.</td><td>
41. <b>Vedic India.</b> By <span class="smcap">Zenaide A. Ragozin</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>18. <b>Phoenicia.</b> By Prof. <span class="smcap">George Rawlinson</span>.</td><td>
42. <b>The West Indies and the Spanish Main.</b> By <span class="smcap">James Rodway</span>, F.L.S.</td></tr>
<tr><td>19. <b>Media.</b> By <span class="smcap">Zenaide A. Ragozin</span>.</td><td>
43. <b>Bohemia.</b> By <span class="smcap">C. E. Maurice</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>20. <b>The Hansa Towns.</b> By <span class="smcap">Helen Zimmern</span>.</td><td>
44. <b>The Balkans.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. Miller</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>21. <b>Early Britain.</b> By Professor <span class="smcap">Alfred J. Church</span>.</td><td>
45. <b>Canada.</b> By Dr. <span class="smcap">Bourinot</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>22. <b>The Barbary Corsairs.</b> By <span class="smcap">Stanley Lane-Poole</span>.</td><td>
46. <b>British India.</b> By <span class="smcap">R. W. Frazer</span>, LL.B.</td></tr>
<tr><td>23. <b>Russia.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. R. Morfill</span>.</td><td>
47. <b>Modern France.</b> By <span class="smcap">André le Bon</span>.</td></tr>
<tr><td>24. <b>The Jews under the Roman Empire.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. D. Morrison</span>.</td><td>
<b><ins class="transcriber"
title="Transcriber's note: '48.' missing from original text."> </ins>The Franks.</b> By <span class="smcap">Lewis Sergeant</span>, B.A.</td></tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p class="pub">"Such a universal history as the series will present us with in its completion will be a
possession such as no country but our own can boast of.... Its success on the whole
has been very remarkable."—<i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>
<hr class="major" />
<div class="tnote">
<h3>Transcriber’s Notes:</h3>
<p>Obvious spelling/typographical and punctuation
errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other
occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.</p>
<p>Transcriber’s notes in text—mostly detailing corrections—are
indicated by faint dotted underlining.
Scroll the mouse over the word and the note will <ins class="transcriber"
title="Transcriber’s note: original reads ‘zephyr’">appear</ins>.</p>
<p>The text is a compilation of previously published articles.</p>
<p>Inconsistent spelling and inline hyphenation occurs across
chapters and is retained:</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>* “meal-worm[s]” occurs four times, “mealworm[s]” thirteen times<br/>
* “re-appeared” occurs once and “reappeared” occurs three times</p>
</div>
<p>Page 3: The signature date 1800 is clear error, 1898 is likely correct.</p>
<p>Page 28, 29: “I used still to to”, extra “to” removed.</p>
<p>Last Pub. Page: Last entry “The Franks” unnumbered, retained.</p>
<p>This handwritten note appears on the first page of the transcriber's copy of the book.</p>
<div class='center'>
<p style="font-size: small;">
<span style="margin-left: 4em"><i>Wm. Lambert.</i></span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 4em"><i>Prize for regular attendance.</i></span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 9em"><i>Moulton School,</i></span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 11em"><i>Xmas, 1900.</i></span></p>
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